


Zhelaniye

by Nonymos



Series: Civil War Mid-Credit Scene Musings [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: ...cycling right back into homo, AND BY GOD THEY BOTH GET ONE, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Canon Compliant, Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Mid-Credits Scene, Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Spoilers, Civil War Coda, Civil War Fix-It, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, I can be good, I can play along, M/M, Mutual Pining, No Homo, Oh I'll comply to your canon, Platonic Life Partners, Platonic Love, Platonic Soulmates, Recovery, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, The Hugs This Fandom Deserves, WOOHOO CIVIL WAR CAME OUT IN THE US I CAN FINALLY TAG THIS PROPERLY, attempt at a mid-credit scene explanation, by which I mean, civil war spoilers, discussion of suicide, mid-credit scene spoilers, so many hugs guys, upon second viewing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-06-05 17:26:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 20,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6714097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nonymos/pseuds/Nonymos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That's not something he can truly accept, but maybe he has to anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. October

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [渴望](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7023601) by [AprilSummer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AprilSummer/pseuds/AprilSummer)
  * Translation into Русский available: [Желание](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7839325) by [Sangrill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sangrill/pseuds/Sangrill)



> Soooooooo I SAW CIVIL WAR AGAIN. In a state of lessened trauma, heightened reasoning and only mild sleep deprivation (this time) here is a more coherent and perhaps less heartbreaking take on the mid-credits scene.
> 
> Just like last time, DO NOT READ IF YOU HAVEN'T SEEN CIVIL WAR, SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS, etc.

 

 

 

 

 

 

When Bucky said that he wanted to be put back under, Sam took one look at Steve’s expression and dragged him out of the room.

“Breathe,” he ordered sternly.

“He can’t—” The words were clogging his throat. “He _can’t—”_

“Panic attack first, talk later.” Sam crouched to be at eye level and put a solid hand on Steve’s shoulder. “C’mon.”

It took Steve longer than usual to get his shaky breathing under control. The serum had fixed his asthma but couldn’t do anything against pain and grief and loss.

“I just… I don’t _understand,”_ he finally managed to gasp out. “It’s not right, Sam.” His desperate eyes looked for Sam’s steady brown gaze. “That’s the last thing he deserves.”

“Maybe that’s for him to decide.”

“He doesn’t—”

Steve’s mouth clicked shut. _Doesn’t know any better._ How dared he think something like that. He screwed his eyes shut and got in another rattling lungful of air.

“You should talk it out with him, man.” Sam looked up and Steve followed his gaze. Through the glass wall, he could see that Bucky was quietly waiting in the other room, looking out the window out of decency, maybe. T’Challa and his staff had left him alone. “I think he expects you to.”

“Yeah,” Steve said. He took a last second to gather himself. “Yeah,” he repeated, and pushed himself up.

 

*

 

Bucky didn’t turn around when Steve came back into the room. He looked almost ethereal dressed like this, in only light scrubs with his feet bare. Steve realized he’d never seen him wear white. Not once since the day they’d met.

He didn’t know what to say. Where to start. Before the silence could stretch for too long, Bucky said quietly, “Walk with me?”

Steve looked at him.

“Yeah, Buck,” he murmured. “Of course.”

Bucky finally turned and smiled at him, a little, and the broken edge of that smile tore through Steve’s heart just like every time he saw it.

 

*

 

The compound’s promenade overlooked the whispering jungle—the windows stretched from floor to ceiling all along the empty corridor. Bucky walked between them and Steve, like he’d never lost the habit to shield him from harm.

“Think about it logically,” he said, blank eyes surveying the canopy. “I can’t fight. I can’t be out there. Eventually another Zemo will pop up, and more people will die.”

“I know,” Steve said with difficulty. “But you could find—”

“Somewhere quiet?” Bucky’s lips quirked a joyless smile. “That’s what I had in Romania. And look how that turned out.”

A bird cried out somewhere in the distance; Bucky's eyes jumped up, as if looking for it through the foliage.

“Besides, the whole planet is after me now. There’s no place for me to hide.”

“There is Wakanda,” Steve said, a bit too desperately. “It’s a gated country. T’Challa won’t let anyone come for you.”

“And that’s why I’m trusting him with my cryochamber,” Bucky said. He raised his hand to cut Steve off. “I know what you’re going to say. I could just live here. But what am I going to _do?_ Just walk around and think about the past?”

Something trembled in his expression.

“It’s all or nothing, Steve. I’ve tried _all._ Until you find a way to make it work, I have to settle for _nothing.”_

Steve had fallen a few steps behind. He looked at Bucky’s strong back and shoulders and wished to God he could carry part of that load.

“But the ice,” he said.

“It’s peaceful.” Bucky had stopped in front of the window. “It’s the only form of rest I can get. I don’t sleep, you know? Not really. I survive through cat naps. There’s too much in my head to allow more.”

Steve’s sorrow was like a living creature in his chest. Every beat of his heart pulsed pain through his veins.

“I’m not afraid,” Bucky whispered. “I can’t remember the last time I was able to say that about myself. But I know I’ll be safe here. And I won’t have to worry about what happens to me when I wake up. You could come and visit anytime you like.”

“I’m not—” Steve had to fight back a sudden onslaught of tears. “I’m not gonna put my best friend in the _fridge_ like some goddamn _leftovers_ to be warmed up when I feel like it.”

Bucky laughed. It never ceased to amaze Steve, that he was still capable of that.

“You’re always so dramatic,” he said fondly. “This is my choice. You’re not the one locking me away.”

There was a silence.

“Aren’t you worried about losing time?” Steve said, desperate—he knew he was running out of arguments.

“Not really,” Bucky said, glancing at him. “T’Challa said he’d wake me up every three months to keep me updated on his research. Sounds reasonable to me.”

“Reasonable,” Steve repeated.

And it was horrifyingly reasonable. He couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“See?” Bucky said, flippant. “It’s fine. The only thing I’m kinda bummed about,” his voice faltered for a second, “is that I won’t get to see you as much anymore.”

In three steps Steve had walked to him and wrapped him tight in his arms. Bucky exhaled like a great weight had been lifted from him, and clutched hard at Steve, hand fisting into his shirt. Steve squeezed tighter, tighter, hid his face in Bucky’s hair.

“I’ll be there every time,” he gasped, “every three months, I’ll come back, I’ll be there.”

“No,” Bucky said, voice rough, still holding on too tight. “Don’t get into a pattern. That’s how people find you.”

“Fine,” Steve said, “I’ll make it random enough that no one can see through it. But I’ll be there _every goddamn time.”_

Bucky let out a laugh or maybe a sob. “Jesus, Rogers,” he said brokenly, “are you actually listening to me for once in your life?”

“This is your choice,” Steve said, blinking the tears out. “I hate it but it’s your choice. And you get to make all of them. Now and forever.”

Bucky didn’t say anything, just squeezed even tighter, and Steve wasn’t sure how long they stayed there, rocking on their feet, in that long quiet hallway with the fog and the jungle out the great windows.

 

*

 

Steve was pretty sure his eyes were still red when they came back into medical. Sam didn’t comment on it, didn’t say a word, just clasped Steve’s shoulder before he left.

Bucky looked at him go, and Steve realized it was part of the reason Bucky was allowing himself to sleep—because he trusted Steve to be alright in the end. He’d seen for himself that Steve had people to watch his back and fight for him. He’d let Steve catch up to him, and now he was quietly asking to be released again.

“As far as cryochambers go, the temperature will be fairly high,” T’Challa said. “You will not be frozen still. No sensations and no dreams, but enough leeway for your mind and body to mend—a hibernation of sorts.”

Bucky nodded. Steve couldn’t look up from the floor, but T’Challa seemed to understand. He stepped aside pointedly, leaving them alone.

Steve, in what was probably his most incredible feat of courage to date, looked up and met Bucky’s gaze.

Bucky was smiling at him. He understood everything. He’d always had.

“Are you sure about this?” Steve asked one last time, helpless.

“As long as I can’t trust my head, it’s better if I go back under,” Bucky said.

Steve swore to himself he wouldn’t stop till he’d found a way to undo everything Hydra had done; and Bucky must know that too, must have read his mind, because his smile grew fonder, softer. He really wanted to do this—was looking _forward_ to it—and maybe knowing this could be enough to keep Steve’s heart from tearing in half.

In another life, Bucky would have said _Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone._ And Steve would have said, _How could I? You’re taking all the stupid with…_

He couldn’t finish the thought, couldn’t smile back no matter how much Bucky deserved it. And Bucky _knew_ he hated this, but Steve was letting him do it anyway, and he could tell Bucky was grateful. Because Steve knew him, too, even after so long.

Steve forced himself to watch. Bucky looked peaceful. He closed his eyes without fear or tension, and when the ice came, there seemed to be no pain. Steve hadn’t even thought to ask him if it hurt.

 

*

 

Sam was waiting for him outside. “His Highness wants a word,” he said dryly. “You gonna be okay?”

“Yeah,” Steve said. He took a deep breath, then looked up. Enough staring at his feet. “Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

“Three months,” Sam reminded him.

Steve nodded, unable to speak.

“Hey, when you’re done chatting with Cat-Man, come find me,” Sam said. “We’ll see if them Wakandan alcohols can get you hammered.”

It pushed a poor, sad laugh out of Steve. “I doubt it.”

“No harm in trying, man.” Sam clasped his shoulder, squeezed for a blessed second. “No harm in trying.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please come have a heated and possibly tearful debate with me in the comments


	2. January

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SOOOO this turned into a multi-chapter fic, HOW DID THIS HAPPEN, who knows, not me. I changed the title because I hated it and I finally figured out a much better one.  
> And as always, SPOILERS FOR CIVIL WAR, etc.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“He’s shaking,” Steve said tensely.

It was taking all of his willpower not to run into the room. Bucky’s eyes were unfocused; he didn’t seem to know where he was, or who was handling him. The medical staff was very gentle and the lights had been dimmed so his eyes would have time to adjust. But he was _shaking._

“This is perfectly normal,” T’Challa said. “And a good sign. His body is getting itself warmer.”

Steve said nothing. T’Challa didn’t sigh, but he still inclined his head towards the room. “You can go. But listen to the medical staff.”

Steve would have agreed to anything—he barely waited till T’Challa was done talking before he rushed into the room be by Bucky’s side. The staff didn’t look happy with his presence, but they backed off regardless. Steve carefully slipped Bucky’s arm over his shoulders and helped him take the last steps to the bed, so he could sit down on something that wasn’t a chair.

A silent nurse provided Steve with a warm blanket; he wrapped it over Bucky’s shoulders and brushed his damp hair out of his face.

“Hey, Buck,” he said, rubbing his back. “Do you know where you are?”

Bucky stared into space for a second more, looking completely lost. When he hesitantly met Steve’s gaze, the confusion in his eyes broke Steve’s heart. “Uh—”

“That’s fine.” Steve pulled him against his side and kept rubbing his back. “Take your time.”

Bucky looked happy enough doing just that. After a while, his shaking subsided, and he weakly grabbed at the blanket to tighten it over himself.

When Bucky looked up again, Steve didn’t say anything—just waited. Bucky took a long look around the room, surveying the medical staff, then looked at Steve.

A faint smile curled up his lips. “Hi,” he rasped. “Fancy seeing you here.”

 

*

 

When Bucky said he could answer her questions, he doctor’s calm dark eyes turned to Steve. “Captain, if you would please give us the room.”

Steve swallowed. He had to obey the medical staff—he could not afford to irritate T’Challa to the point of dropping Bucky’s care. He got up despite his every cell screaming at him not to go.

“He can stay,” Bucky said quietly. “Excuse me—what’s your name?”

She looked at him. “Hsari.”

“Dr. Hsari, don’t worry about him. I’ll answer any question you have for me. If I need him to leave I’ll say so.”

Hsari stared at him for another couple of seconds, then nodded. “Very well.”

Steve sat back down.

“Any lingering numbness?” Hsari began, “Any remaining confusion?” and Bucky answered quietly no numbness, no confusion, no pain.

 

*

 

“Think of a house. Think of a stone. Think of a river.”

Eyes closed, Bucky looked very calm despite the helmet of electrodes covering his head. Steve had been made to get out for this part, but the room wasn’t soundproof and he could hear Hsari’s calm voice through the glass.

“Very well. The calibration is done. Now think of a good memory.”

Bucky’s expression didn’t change, but his brain scan pulsed and shimmered with changing colors.

“Think of a bad memory.”

A new array of colors throbbed angrily on the screen.

“Think of an old memory.”

“How old?” Bucky asked without opening his eyes.

“Let’s say Brooklyn.”

The name of his home in this rich foreign accent made Steve feel strange. Like the past was cycling back into the future. Bucky smiled a little, without opening his eyes.

“Now think of World War II,” Hsari went on.

A silence.

“Now Siberia.”

The lights on the screen almost shut down. Steve wished he knew what it meant. Maybe it was better if he didn’t.

“Now DC.” Hsari was carefully filing away the scans and jotting down notes on a floating screen. “Now Romania. And now—the present day.”

Hsari waited for a while, then said, “Thank you. That is all. Do not remove the helmet by yourself, please.”

Bucky hadn’t made any move to do so. His pliancy made something in Steve’s chest twist—he’d sat still and silent in Ross’ cage, too. He did not move as Hsari’s gloved fingers fiddled with the electrodes before removing the helmet.

“We would like you to eat something,” Hsari said, “to ensure that your digestive system does not falter with disuse. When you’ve passed your food without any complication, you’ll be able to regain the chamber if you like.”

“Okay,” Bucky said. “Thank you.”

 

*

 

“Doesn’t it bother you?” Steve asked.

“The tests? No.” Bucky was very slowly eating his food. “They’re necessary.”

Steve said nothing, but he was playing with his napkin and Bucky saw it. He smiled at Steve, a little fond, a little sad.

“HYDRA got me out of cryo twice faster, and dragged me to the chair before I could even realize where I was. This is… this is _nice,_ Steve. And T’Challa is being,” his voice turned wry, “overly generous.”

“I know,” Steve said at once. “God, I know.”

“You look down in the dumps. Eat something. Especially since _you_ can actually afford real food.”

 _You could too,_ Steve wanted to grit out, _if you wanted,_ but Bucky was eating a tasteless gruel because Bucky was planning to go back into the ice when the day was done.

 

*

 

They took a walk in the gardens and Bucky asked him how everyone was doing.

“They’re fine,” Steve said. “We’re all living together in a mansion of sorts. Wanda warded it against detection, so Sam can fly around as much as he wants. It’s… it’s good. Scott keeps saying he never thought he’d set foot in France. Clint misses his kids, though.”

Bucky said nothing, just hummed in acknowledgment. They walked in silence for a little while. The tropical air was thick and hot.

“What about Stark?”

Steve took a deep breath. “Mending his own. I sent him a letter. Told him I would be there if he needed me.”

There was a long silence.

Eventually, Bucky asked, “Any word from Natasha?”

“No. I suppose that’s good news.”

“When you see her, you should ask her. About me.”

Steve looked at him. “What do you mean?”

“They’re not my secrets to tell. Just ask her, and if she feels like it, she’ll tell you.” He smiled. “I can feel the time that passed, you know. I’ve been actually sleeping, not just frozen.”

Steve made himself smile, but he must have done a very poor job of it because Bucky shook his head and took Steve’s arm.

“Come on, you idiot.”

They sat on a little stone bench by a deep indigo pond, and said nothing for a few hours, just stared at the gardens with their shoulders pressed together.

 

*

 

Bucky passed his food just fine. Hsari collected all sorts of samples, then said, “I have everything I need. You’re cleared to go back in. When you come out for the second time, we will be able to compare our results and start working on a strategy.”

“Thank you,” Bucky said. “For everything you’re doing.”

“The King’s will is my will,” Hsari said, inclining her head. “I will leave you alone until you’re ready.”

The cryochamber had started humming. Steve swallowed thickly. It hadn’t even been a full twenty-four hours.

This time, it was Bucky who reached out to pull him close.

“I’m fine,” he said, holding him tight. “Steve, I’m fine. It’s okay.”

Steve pressed his face into his shoulder and muttered doggedly, “I’ll see you in three months.”

Bucky huffed a laugh and released him. His smile was still that mixture of fond and sad. “Of course you will.”

Then he got up and the medical staff came back in to strap him in. Again, Steve forced himself to watch.

 

*

 

Sam wasn’t here—Steve had insisted on it—but T’Challa was the one to offer him a drink this time. Steve wondered how he looked. Probably not his best.

“I wish I knew where to start,” he said, nursing a glass of crystal clear liquor.

“The notebook is a good indication,” T’Challa said. “It is an evil and cold thing, but the answers are there.”

Steve couldn’t think of the red cover and its dark little star without a shiver of hatred. “It’s an instruction manual. But they don’t say how to undo any of it.”

T’Challa hummed. “If you ask me,” he said, staring into the distance with the casual ease of kings in their kingdom, “that is not the sole root of your problem.”

Steve looked up. “What do you mean?”

“Your friend is tired.” T’Challa swirled the contents of his glass. “The kind of fatigue only death will cure. But for your sake, he settled for the next best thing.”

Steve could not breathe. His hand tightened around his glass, whose chiseled edges cut into his palm.

“If we can cure his mind, he will need the ice no longer. But that does not mean he won’t _want_ it anymore.”

Steve waited till he was certain his voice would be steady. “So how do I get him to want something else?”

“With time and friendship.” T’Challa’s hand came to rest on his shoulder. “Of which you have plenty to give.”

Steve took a deep, careful breath. After that he straightened up and downed the contents of his glass. Blood glistened on its edges.

“As for the more technical side of things,” T’Challa said, “there are several trails for us to follow. Talk to your friend Wanda. I will consult acquaintances of my own.” He inclined his head again, in that thoughtful way which meant sincerity. “You are not alone in this fight.”

Steve nodded. Then smiled. “I can never thank you enough for what you’re doing.”

“Good men should not have to earn what they need,” T’Challa said. “But if really you want to do me a favor—try and find some peace of your own.”

Steve ducked his head, nodding. He looked up at the jungle, at the sun coming up through the fog.

“I will see you in three months,” T’Challa said.

Steve turned back to him and joined his hands, bowing a little awkwardly. _“Enkosi.”_

Surprise sparked in T’Challa’s dark eyes, before he smiled and answered in kind, with a lot more grace. _“Enkosi._ Now go. Your family awaits.”

Steve was rather under the impression that he was leaving it behind.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments fuel me like whoa


	3. April

 

 

 

 

 

The second time, Steve was allowed into the room right away. He welcomed a shivering Bucky in his arms and bundled him in the warm blanket without any help from the medical staff.

“Good morning,” Hsari said.

Bucky’s voice was awfully weak. “Is it morning?”

There should be windows in the room, Steve thought angrily. But of course there weren’t. The light would have hurt Bucky’s eyes right out of cryo. Everything was being done out of concern for him. Yet it was everything HYDRA had done too. They’d just been less gentle about it—or more honest, maybe.

Steve tried to steer away from that line of thought. He was Bucky’s sole link to the world; he shouldn’t be anything but supportive.

“Are you ready for the tests?” Hsari asked.

It wasn’t going to be easy.

 

*

 

“Think of a house. Think of a stone. Think of a river.”

It was only the second time, and yet Steve felt like he knew this scene by heart. Bucky’s calm expression. The electrodes. The questions. The colors of his brain scan on the screen, constantly shifting into mysterious patterns Steve couldn’t decipher.

When it was over Bucky said, “Do I have to eat something again?”

 _Have to._ Was it possible that he already wanted to go back under?

Again, Steve forced his thoughts away from gloominess. If he couldn’t make Bucky want to live in this world, then who would?

“If you don’t mind. It would be good also to try sleeping,” Hsari answered.

Bucky smiled—and Steve wondered _why_ he wanted to cry every goddamn time Bucky _smiled._

“Sure,” Bucky answered gently like he already knew it wouldn’t work. “I can give it a try.”

 

*

 

“So how are things?” Bucky asked with his mouth full.

Steve tried to find something pleasant to say, but came up empty. The house in France was gorgeous and spring was blooming with such vivid exuberance it rivaled Wanda for miracles. But Steve was rarely there; most of his three months had been spent in their stolen Quinjet, wandering the world for intel on mental conditioning. He’d met with retired CIA agents, twitchy Mossad handlers and even an ex-KGB colonel. They’d all told him the same thing: breaking a man was easy. Mending him was another matter.

“Steve?” Bucky’s eyebrows were raised. “Something wrong?”

Steve shook his head with a mirthless huff of laughter. “Nothing, just… I feel like I’m visiting you in prison.”

Jesus. It was the absolute wrong thing to say. He was supposed to try and be _cheerful._ This situation wasn’t even all bad. Bucky was safe and at peace in-between outings. Steve didn’t have to worry whether he was hungry or captured or in pain.

Of course, he hated this very comfort the most—hated that he might get used to the thought of Bucky as a convenience left in storage. But this was something he was supposed to _deal with._ Why couldn’t he keep his goddamn mouth shut?

Bucky just shrugged. “Hey, you’re not too far off the mark.”

Steve did his best to ignore his flippancy and tried to remember what he’d been asked. _How are things._ Right.

“It’s—it’s been a quiet three months,” he said, which wasn’t technically a lie. “I’ve had time to discuss your triggers with Wanda.”

“Uh-huh,” Bucky said, finishing his plate. “What’d she say?”

The same thing they’d all said. “That causing damage is much easier than repairing it.” Steve took a breath. “She’s never tried to undo anything—and especially something she hadn’t done herself. If that’s fine with you, she could come here and… take a look. For a start.”

Bucky put down his fork, and Steve was afraid he’d say no. But after he’d swallowed his last bite, Bucky just said, “Alright. Anything else?”

“Two interesting leads.” Steve was fiddling with his napkin again, unconsciously tearing it into smaller and smaller bits. “A brain scanner designed to defuse trauma, and an Asgardian mind stone. But the first one is a prototype of Stark’s and the other is embedded in Vision’s head.”

A lopsided smile stretched Bucky’s lips. “I see how that would be a problem.”

“Yeah.” Steve let go of what was left of his napkin. “For now, our best shot seems to be traditional deconditioning.”

“So, praying and dumb luck?” Bucky said, raising an eyebrow.

Steve wanted to laugh—he really wanted to at least _try_ —but tears were suddenly brimming in his eyes. He looked away, blinking fast, cursing at himself. This was the opposite of—if Bucky could joke about it, then why couldn’t he—

“Hey,” Bucky said in a low voice. “Steve...”

“Sorry,” Steve said, gritting his teeth. “Sorry.”

Bucky just sat there in silence, watching him as he tried not to cry, and really the day could have gone better.

 

*

 

“Alright.” Hsari lowered the lights in the room. “We’re going to give you a light sedative to help things along.”

“I appreciate the feeling,” Bucky said. His tone was clearly doubtful, but he let her inject him regardless.

Steve had to leave the room again. On the bed, Bucky closed his eyes and exhaled.

Hsari was sitting behind her desk, surveying Bucky’s brain activity in lines that spiked up on her screen; without looking up she said, “This is going to take a while. You can leave if you want.”

When Steve didn’t move, she added, “Or at least take a seat.”

“I’ll stand, thank you.”

Her silent disapproval weighed on him, but he didn’t really care.

Fifteen long minutes went by without anything happening. Bucky couldn’t toss and turn because of the helmet, but he was blinking his eyes open sometimes, staring at the ceiling for a couple of seconds before lowering his eyelids again with a deep breath.

“Ah,” Hsari said after another ten minutes. “He’s going under.”

Bucky’s brainwaves had changed on the graph, drooping into a smooth series of curves. But after two minutes he jerked awake, eyes flying open, hands clenching into the sheets. He relaxed with difficulty, closed his eyes and sank back down more quickly this time—but he twitched again after only one minute, breath coming out in gasps. He smoothed it back down with an effort, but lost control of it again when he woke up from his next micro-plunge.

After another five minutes, Steve realized Bucky definitely wasn’t going to fall asleep, but also wasn’t going to say anything. In some insidious way this was a form of torture—and yet he would comply to the experiment as long as Hsari wanted him to.

“That’s enough,” Steve said.

Hsari didn’t look happy to be given orders, but she said, “Yes, I think so too.”

She gradually turned the lights back on. “Thank you, we’re done.”

Steve walked into the room as soon as she let him. Bucky was carefully sitting up on the edge of the bed; he grimaced a little smile. “Told you it wouldn’t work.”

“Is it a trigger too?” Steve asked anxiously. “Did they make you unable to sleep?”

“No,” Bucky said. He looked at Steve with calm grey eyes. “I just don’t have a lot of good dream material.”

 

*

 

The cryochamber had started humming in the background and Steve realized he truly _hated_ that noise.

“You know you don’t have to come back every time,” Bucky suddenly said.

Steve stared at him.

“What?”

“You’ve just… you’ve looked so goddamn devastated all day.” Bucky was doing that smile again. “Look—I’m good here, Steve. And it’s going to be a long while before we get anywhere. You’re free to just… live your life in the meantime. It’s alright.”

Steve had frozen up a little more with each word. Oh God. He’d fucked this up even more than he thought. Bucky wouldn’t even let him visit anymore.

“Is that what you want?” he said with difficulty. “For me not to come next time?”

Bucky was silent.

“If you can look me in the eyes and mean it,” Steve said, voice trembling, “then I’ll stay away.”

“No, I—I don’t _want_ that,” Bucky said. “But I don’t want you to feel obligated.”

“I don’t—Jesus. I’m sorry,” Steve said desperately. “I known I shouldn’t be so—I’m going to make an effort to be less gloomy next time.”

Bucky stared at him. Then he huffed wryly at himself. “Of course that’s what you’re getting from this. Steve, you don’t… The best thing you’ve said to me today was that prison thing.”

Steve blinked.

“I know you hate this,” Bucky said. “If you wanna be here anyway then—then I’m glad.” He blinked hard. “But you don’t gotta force yourself to _smile_ like it’s the only reason I’m keeping you around.” A glimpse of his old smile touched his lips. “It’s not like you were ever known for your cheer and joy, anyway.”

This time Steve’s tears rolled down. He hid them with his hand and couldn’t help laughing at the same time, because really, this was all ridiculous. He managed to get it under control after a few seconds and shook his head, sniffing.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“For what?” Bucky asked quietly.

“For wishing I could just fix everything.”

Bucky smiled, always so fond. “Well, that’s not exactly _new.”_

 

*

 

On his way out, he asked T’Challa to open the safe for him and sat with the little notebook, committing it all to memory. The _second_ Bucky was better, he would destroy this thing. Just touching it was making him sick with loathing.

 _“Zhel—zhela…_ shit.”

“Are you reading out his trigger words?” T’Challa said.

“I was thinking I should know them. But I’m not very good at reading Cyrillic—there weren’t a lot of Russians running around the European theater in the forties.”

T’Challa looked at the page then read the word Steve had been trying to pronounce. _“Zhelaniye.”_

“Does it mean anything?”

_“Longing.”_

A red veil overtook Steve’s vision and stole his breath away for a second. When he came back to himself, T’Challa was looking at him with calm understanding.

“How did you let go of it?” Steve asked in a straining voice.

“Of the hatred?” T’Challa’s lips stretched by a fraction. “I didn’t really. Zemo will be punished—only not by me.”

He sat next to Steve. “I did give up my bloodthirst when I realized I was only causing more destruction. The only way to win against pain is to build.”

 

*

 

_“So where are you going now?”_

Steve looked at the clouds out the Quinjet’s window. “Actually, I was thinking I’d come back to the house for a while. I need some time to think over everything I’ve got.”

Sam obviously hadn’t been expecting that. _“Really? Well—I’m glad to hear it. We got a hedge that needs clipping.”_ A beat. _“How was Barnes?”_

“Good, actually.” Surprising himself, Steve smiled a little. “But I need better stories to tell him when I come visit.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments give me a writing boost!


	4. May

 

 

 

 

 

 _“Steve,”_ Sam said urgently in Steve’s ear.

At the exact same second, on his right, Wanda stiffened brusquely in her chair.

“Vision’s here,” she breathed, her face bloodless.

Across the rows and rows of conference attendants, on stage, Tony had stepped back and introduced _“…my primary colleague and inspiration, ladies and gentleman: the Vision.”_

“Aren’t we warded against detection?” Steve whispered.

“It won’t work on him,” she hissed back. “We have to—”

 _“—go,”_ Sam was confirming in his ear, _“I’ve brought the car around, if you hurry there’s a chance he just won’t notice you—”_

Steve was already getting up, keeping his head bowed and his shoulders hunched. The huge hall was packed chock-full—apparently the French were very interested in neurotechnology when Iron Man was the one doing the talking.

Wanda trailed after Steve, and he could feel her energy move around them, tendrils of mental manipulation which discouraged anyone from so much as glancing in their direction. They were slowly making their way across the crowd to the nearest emergency exit, which would bring them right out of the gargantuan Parc des Expositions—but when Sam and Wanda blurted _“Shit,”_ at the same time, Steve began to walk faster, knocking people out of the way.

“You have to go first,” Wanda said when he pulled the door open.

“What? No. I don’t want a repeat of the airport fight.”

She gave him a small, shaky smile. “I don’t plan on fighting him.”

Steve hesitated even though he couldn’t afford to—

“If push comes to shove I will meet you back at the house,” she said, “I can handle myself, just _go!”_

 _“MOVE!”_ Sam shouted at the same time, and Steve cursed and rushed into the bare cement hallway.

It only took him a second to notice steps echoing behind him. Vision wouldn’t have run, and Wanda was right—Vision would not miss an opportunity to talk to her. This had to be—

Steve broke into a full-out run. The exit door was right there. Signs in French warned him that it was alarmed; he didn’t care and slammed it open, launching a deafening siren overhead and throughout the whole building. He was about to slam the door shut behind him when someone shouted, “WAIT!”

He stopped it inches before it closed.

 _“What are you doing?”_ Sam hissed in his ear. _“What the hell are you doing?”_

Steve didn’t answer. He stayed very still, with his hand against the door in case Tony tried to force it open.

Tony did no such thing. When he spoke, his voice had a slight edge of hysteria to it.

“I know we’re not exactly on speaking terms at the moment, but you could at least tell me what’s going on. You wouldn’t be here without a good reason. What is it? HYDRA? AIM? The Ten Rings?”

The siren was still howling inside the building. Steve could visualize Tony's face as clearly as if there had been no door at all between them.

“I was just here for the conference,” he said.

Then he let go and hurried away from the building.

 

*

 

“We’re _not_ doing that shit _ever_ again.” Sam was driving angrily into the countryside; the twisty road was narrowing a little more at every turn, but he wasn’t slowing down. “That was too damn close. I knew this was a bad idea from the start.”

Steve didn’t answer; Sam was just venting and probably deserved to do so. It _had_ been very close; they should have probably foreseen Vision's presence.

The risk had been calculated, though. Moving Wanda out of France was problematic—it might stretch her hold on the house’s wards, and they couldn’t afford to lose their shelter. For that same reason, she could not come and go to Wakanda as easily as Steve. It wasn't worth the risk of her going with him until she'd come to a better understanding of brain trauma. They needed to give themselves the best possible odds.

Stark’s conference in Paris was an opportunity they couldn’t afford to miss. Of course, Tony hadn’t been working in this field for very long, but everything he touched turned to gold as usual. As far as Steve could tell, his machine was exactly what Bucky needed. Just his description of it had probably been more helpful to Wanda than months of reading on the subject.

Steve looked up in the rearview mirror. Wanda was in the back seat, with her chin propped up on her hand, looking at the hills.

“Did you get a chance to speak with Vision?” he asked.

She didn’t answer at first. Then, eventually: “We talked.”

“I’m _real_ happy for you guys, _”_ Sam said scathingly. “Oh, by the way, they know we’re in France now. We have to move.”

“They don’t know a thing,” Steve said calmly. “I would’ve crossed an ocean to attend this conference.”

Sam took a deep breath, then exhaled forcefully through his nose. There was a long, painful silence.

“I was the one who told Stark where to find you," he blurted.

Steve turned his head to look at him. This wasn’t what he’d expected at all.

“I said to him, _go alone and go as a friend.”_ Sam hit the wheel. “I’m so goddamn stupid.”

“He did come as a friend. Just didn’t leave as one,” Steve said. He hesitated. “I didn’t realize you felt like that was your fault.”

“That’s because you think everything is only ever _your_ fault.”

Wanda snorted. Steve raised an eyebrow at her in the rearview mirror, then went back to Sam. He felt strange—he wasn’t used to _Sam_ feeling guilty. Sam never messed up. As far as Steve was concerned, he hadn't. But this must have been eating at him, for this to come out now.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Steve said. “He was bound to find out about his parents eventually. Hell, we’re lucky this all played out in Siberia where he couldn’t call on his resources.”

Sam swallowed hard and said nothing, but after a while his grip on the wheel relaxed by a fraction. They drove in silence for a little bit.

“I’m sorry, Wanda,” Sam said eventually. He ran a hand over his face, scrubbing hard. “I just got scared.”

“It’s nothing,” she answered lightly.

Steve smiled a little. The good thing about these two was that they never stayed in a bad mood for very long.

After another long moment of pensive staring out the window, Wanda’s eyes found his in the rearview mirror again.

“Do you wish you could mend things with Stark?”

Steve thought of the promises he’d made in his letter. Then he thought back to Siberia and Tony’s cold-blooded, single-minded determination in killing Bucky.

“Only sometimes,” he said.

 

*

 

They had to drive for almost the entire day before they were back to the house. It was a great goldenstone farm in a tiny old village, known for its cultivated beauty and its rich, excellent food. T’Challa’s doing, of course. The house was entirely furnished, if a bit out of repair, which was probably calculated so they wouldn’t go stir-crazy. Lots of things to paint and to mend. The gardens were still in full bloom and exhaled a light but heady perfume in the evening air.

It was a little bit like paradise, except for the fact that they were in hiding.

Steve thought again about what Sam had said. _You think everything’s your fault._ He did have a hard time wrapping his mind around the fact that nobody here blamed him. Not even Clint, who’d left his family behind. Not even Scott, who’d been trying to stay out of trouble after getting out of prison. Not even Sam, who _really_ hadn’t asked for any of this.

Whenever Steve dared to allude to it, he was met with a chorus of _Jesus, we’re all adults here, even Scott_ and _It was our decision, you’re not the boss of us._

“So was it all for nothing?” Clint asked Wanda, setting the table while Scott—rather disconcertingly—made the food.

“Not exactly. I heard the first half of Stark’s conference, plus a few others before that,” Wanda answered. Upon a twirl of her fingers, the fat-bellied water jug crossed the room to land onto the table. “I have a lot of material to parse through.”

“They _are_ going to be looking for us starting in France, though,” said Sam uneasily. “Maybe it’s better if you don’t go to Wakanda right away.”

Steve thought about it. Bucky had woken up in January, then in April. It was now the middle of May; the next visit was scheduled for July.

“A bit of caution wouldn’t hurt,” he admitted slowly. “You should come to October’s session.”

“In time for Halloween.” She smiled. “It’ll give me more time to prepare. That’s probably for the best.”

“Kinda ironic to use Stark’s research to help Barnes,” Scott said. When the room fell silent, he looked up from his stirring pan and said, “Was that insensitive? I’m sorry. I went to prison.”

Steve forced a laugh. “No, you’re right. Maybe it’s obscene of me. He invented that thing to cope with his parents’ death, and they died at Bucky’s hands.”

“So what?” Wanda said flatly. “Tony killed _my_ family. Got over it, didn’t I?”

A short silence threatened, but before it could settle in, Scott announced, “Food!” and dropped the heavy pan of pasta on the table.

Everyone reached out and there was a short squabble over who got to help themselves first.

“You know, by the way,” Sam said quietly while everyone reached for bread and cheese and tomatoes, “when that happened, Howard Stark was on his way to the Pentagon with five doses of super-soldier serum in his trunk.”

Steve looked at him.

“We don’t know what he was going to do with it,” he said. “We _can’t_ know.”

“I know. I’m just saying,” Sam said. “If you try to keep tallies, you’re gonna drive yourself mad. Gotta move forwards for a change. Spaghetti?”

T’Challa had said something like that too, Steve thought, watching as Sam piled food onto his plate.

Which reminded him. He got out his phone, angled it for light, then snapped a picture—the spaghetti _à la Scott_ glistening with duck grease and tomato sauce; the torn piece of baguette next to his glass, the mismatched cutlery, the chipped blue-and-white porcelain plate.

Realizing the room had fallen silent, he looked up and blinked. They were all looking at him.

“Steve,” Clint said carefully. “Are you… Instagramming your food?”

Steve felt his cheeks heat up a little. “No. It’s for Bucky.”

They just stared at him some more, and if some emotion flickered on their faces, it was stifled quickly enough when Scott snatched his phone out of his hands.

“Hey!—”

"Selfie," Scott pronounced, and they all drew their chairs back to get up and gather around Steve.

“Guys,” Steve said, but there was a helpless sort of warmth unfolding in his chest. Wanda pressed against him, her hand on his right shoulder; the one on his left was Sam’s. Clint was crowding them from behind so he could be in the picture too, and Scott just mashed himself in front of it all.

“Smile!” he said vibrantly, holding the phone at arm’s length.

Steve took a deep breath, then did as he was told.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments water my crops, clear my skin, feed my family


	5. July

 

 

 

 

 

July was very slow to come.

When Steve landed in Wakanda, the stifling tropical heat almost knocked him back into the aircraft. T’Challa, waiting for him on the tarmac, looked supremely unbothered in his black three-piece suit.

“Welcome back,” he said.

 _“Thank you for your welcome,”_ Steve answered in clumsy Wakandan. He’d been studying it in his downtime—it was the least he could do. The spark dancing in T’Challa’s eyes suggested that Steve’s delivery was not perfect, but Steve was happy to amuse him.

They walked side by side into the medical facility, which was blessedly cool. Steve asked T’Challa a few questions about the political situation he faced as a newly crowned king; the answers he got made him very glad he’d never been thrown into that particular snake pit.

The elevator was a smooth-edged bubble of glass glued to the face of the building, like a drop of water sliding down a window. T’Challa stepped inside and shifted back to English. “Maybe it is too early yet—but we should also discuss the matter of your friend’s arm.”

Steve’s blood went cold. “What about it?”

He was bracing himself for complications—surgery—further amputation—and absolutely did not expect T’Challa to say, “He will be in need of a new one. The first one was made of a vibranium alloy—I was very surprised when my ring reacted to it. I don’t know where it came from, but we should be able to repair it without any complications. When he is ready.”

Steve looked at him.

Then he extended his hand and brushed the touchpad; the elevator smoothly stopped half-way, suspended over the fog.

T’Challa didn’t move a muscle, didn’t even look at him, but Steve could tell his poise had shifted from friendly ease to corded tension.

“Why are you so generous to us?” Steve asked bluntly. “I know you feel like you owe Bucky a debt. But I also know the value of vibranium. What you’re offering now is priceless— _and_ you’ve been sustaining me and my own in France, for months.”

Their exposed position over the jungle prickled at him, but he’d left these matters unsaid for too long. “Eleven Wakandans lost their lives in Nigeria. It was my fault. You wanted me to sign the Accords in retribution, and I didn’t.”

T’Challa finally turned his head and looked at him.

“I did want that,” he said. “And my own reckless actions should have reinforced my belief in the need for supervision. Is that what you think?”

Steve shifted a bit on his feet. He’d been too polite to say this, but T’Challa was no fool.

“I did not err because I refused to listen to Ross,” T’Challa said, his accent like sandpaper over finely grained dark wood. “I did because I would not listen to _you._ Barnes was innocent and Zemo was guilty. You tried to warn us from the start.”

“You all knew I was biased. Stark had the high ground.”

“I am not certain Stark’s personal feelings were left entirely out of the equation,” T’Challa said, which had to be the biggest euphemism Steve had ever heard. “And regardless—he betrayed his own ideals when he went to Siberia to fight by your side. Not even a week after he’d signed the Accords. But _you_ never wavered. _You_ never compromised.”

“Because I was stubborn.”

“Because you were _right._ I do not know anyone in politics who never changed sides. Not even my father. Not even myself.” His eyes were calm and unmoving. “Except for you. And that is because the path to follow was clear to you from the start.”

“I actually do wish we could be supervised,” Steve said, vaguely wondering why the hell he was insisting on playing devil’s advocate _right now._

“So do I. And in an ideal world we could allow it. But look at what happened in Berlin and tell me: who can we trust to direct us but ourselves?”

Steve couldn’t answer that. If he could, he would have signed the Accords, and everything would have been very different.

“A king is always in dire need of advisors like you,” T’Challa said. “People who can steer a ship true, no matter the storm. I do not think you realize how rare that is.”

His lips twitched into a smile. “And you also underestimate what it means to have you for an ally—to say nothing of Ms. Maximoff. So rest assured.” He reached out to get the elevator moving again. “My generosity does not spring from thin air.”

 

*

 

Steve’s head was still full of politics when Bucky’s chamber opened, billowing steam rushing out. It was a relief to gather him in his arms and feel his heartbeat, this simple, straightforward gift. He was alive. Never mind anything else, he was _alive._

“Steve?” Bucky asked, his voice weak and uncertain.

He was always so vulnerable right out of the ice. There was a physical ache in Steve’s chest when he imagined him in such a state, dragged across cold rooms by unforgiving hands, welcomed only by rough restraints and the chair.

“Yeah. It’s me.” Steve wished his embrace could have meant something more than fleeting comfort. He wished he was here to take Bucky home. “I got you, Buck.”

Bucky exhaled and his head lolled forward. “M’ glad you’re here.”

Steve’s traitorous heart seized up again. Jesus. He’d hoped it would be easier this time.

“Are you back with us?” Hsari said, walking in.

Bucky nodded his assent and moved away from Steve, though not by much. He was still slightly shivering as she listed the tests he would endure this time around.

“…a full meal, another attempt at sleep, the usual brain scans, and a physical.”

“Okay,” Bucky said quietly.

The word pushed past Steve’s lips before he realized it. “No.”

They both looked at him.

“You don’t have to do that every time,” Steve went on, following only his instinct—and his instinct told him not to let this happen. “Let’s take a breather.”

“Steve…”

 _“What,”_ Steve challenged, “you got somewhere to be?”

For a second, Bucky just stared. But then, miraculously, his lips twitched with the shadow of a smile.

“Can’t say I do.” He glanced at Hsari. “But maybe she does.”

Steve turned to her. “Ma’am, I know I keep interfering with your work, but you won’t let _that_ interfere with your care. As far as Bucky’s concerned, he’s just been through forty-eight hours of tests without interruption. We’re taking a break.”

For a second, Hsari’s flinty stare was more disapproving than ever. But then she looked at Bucky with something softer in her expression. “Do you have any objection to such a setback?”

Bucky looked like he hadn’t expected her to ask _him._ “Uh… I—no.”

“Then I agree with Captain Rogers.” She glared at him. “Though it pains me to say it.”

 

*

 

“You charmer,” Bucky said after she was gone.

“I just—” Steve shrugged a little helplessly. “You’ve spent all of your time in here, except for that walk in the gardens one time. I thought… I’m sorry if I forced your hand.”

“You’re not sorry at all,” Bucky said with a faint huff of breath.

But he was looking at Steve with soft, smiling eyes. There was a quiet moment when neither of them spoke.

Eventually, Bucky glanced away. “Well, we’ve got the day to ourselves. Was there anything you wanted to do?”

Steve took a deep breath. “How about getting out of here, for a start?”

 

*

 

Wakanda was a small country; the mountain range comprising the western border wasn’t far. Steve landed the Quinjet next to an opaque green river, and they set about hiking to the top.

As they climbed up the dirt track, the thick July air cleared into something cooler and lighter. When they were a mile up, the trees grew scarcer until they vanished completely, leaving only sharp obsidian rocks protruding out of the earth and thick grass under their feet.

Steve took off his shoes for the last stretch, and after a little while Bucky did the same.

When they reached the top, the rolling canopy was like a dark green sea stretching as far as they could see, melting into a foggy blue on the horizon. The sky above was cloudless, and so pure it was almost without color.

Bucky gazed at the view in silence. His dark hair was moving gently in the breeze.

 _Did you forget you were free?_ Steve wanted to ask. He ached with the thought. He ached when he wondered if Bucky’s obedience to Hsari sprang from habit, fatigue, or resignation—or a mixture of the three. He couldn’t know; he wouldn’t ask. But he could give him this.

Eventually, Bucky turned round. The look on his face was difficult to read, but what he chose to give away was a smile.

“Thanks, Steve.”

Steve swallowed hard. “That’s nothing. You should see our house.” He walked closer. “I… brought pictures if you’re interested.”

Bucky looked away again.

“Next time,” he said. “Be nice to look forward to that.”

They both knew that next time Wanda would come along and forage through Bucky’s brain—the thought cut through Steve like a blade, and for a second the air was suffocatingly thin.

“Sure,” he managed. “Next time.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments make me bounce around in joy!  
> Also, looks like I'm posting every two days from now on.


	6. September

 

 

 

 

 

 

The sunset turned the yellow stone walls of their farm into molten gold. It was always beautiful, but tonight the light was exceptional, and Steve told the others he was going to take a picture.

After a playful back-and-forth about avoiding the dishes, they let him walk down into the gardens—so he could slip into the shade and try to have his panic attack as quietly as possible.

Wanda was coming with him to Wakanda in a week, and the pressure around his chest was increasing every day. He hadn’t really slept in forty-eight hours. So much could go wrong for the people left behind, unprotected, while she was gone. And what if she couldn’t do anything to help Bucky?

Steve heard someone making their way through the garden and forced himself to pay attention. They weren’t exaggeratedly discreet, but he couldn’t identify who it was right away—and that alone was enough to make him go silent, forcefully bringing his erratic breaths under control.

For a moment there was nothing. Then:

“Is Clint the one taking care of the rose bushes?”

Steve froze.

When he came out of the shadows, Natasha did her best to smile at him.

He looked at her for a long minute.

“How did you know where to find us?”

“Clint told me,” she said frankly. She was pale and stood stiffly. “Steve, if I’m not welcome—”

He’d wrapped her in his arms before she could finish her sentence. She let out a breath—not even a noise—then relief loosened her body and she hugged him back.

He remembered what she’d told him in DC. _When I joined SHIELD I thought I was going straight._ Despite herself, a rift had severed her family _again,_ and in her attempts to keep the Avengers together she’d ended up betraying both sides—the very thing she’d wanted so desperately to avoid.

“I’m sorry,” Steve murmured in her hair.

She let out a shaky laugh. “Me too.”

Steve released her. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for. You were trying to limit the damage.”

“And what a stellar job I did.”

“Nobody died,” Steve said softly.

That made her look away. For a second, she just watched the roses.

“How’s Barnes?” she asked.

Horrifyingly, Steve felt his face crumple down. Natasha looked at him like she’d looked at him at Peggy’s funeral.

“No, it’s… it’s not even that bad,” he said, struggling to get a hold of himself. “We have options. He’s holding up. It’s just that—”

“—getting rid of the triggers is just the beginning,” she finished.

He stared at her.

Her smile was sad. “I wondered if you’d realized that.”

Steve remembered something then. “Bucky said… he said to ask you about him.”

Something indecipherable passed on Natasha’s face. Then she gave a strange little smile. “Did he?”

 

*

 

They needed a drink for this conversation, Natasha decided. Not even alcohol—just something to do with their hands. The sun was setting for good, embers glittering just above the horizon. Steve was making tea; just as planned, it let them look away from each other until she was ready to talk.

The first floor of the house was empty. Evidently someone—probably Clint—had instructed everyone to give them space.

Eventually, he heard her voice, soft and slow.

“I was born in 1944.”

Steve’s hands stopped moving.

“James started training me when I was six years old. At the time they weren’t wiping him whole; they just replaced his memories. He thought he was Russian.”

Steve realized he’d stopped breathing. The world was reshaping itself around him, shifting under his feet.

“He taught me everything I know. He was,” something rueful twisted into her voice, “my hero.”

Steve forced himself to pour the tea. Bring it to the table. Sit down. He couldn’t look at her, so he looked at the dancing lights in his cup instead, his heart hammering in his ears.

“When I met him again I was seventeen, and he didn’t know me. But I remembered him. I’d worshipped him for so long. I wanted him—and he let me have him.”

Now Steve was glad he’d sat down. It was almost too big to comprehend; and yet it was oddly easy to imagine them together. Bucky and Nat, bloodied and sweaty from battle, pressing against each other for a few stolen moments.

“Then our handlers found out.”

His blood went cold again. When he dared to glance up, she wasn’t looking at him; her eyes were deep in memory.

“For the longest time I thought they’d killed him. Until I met him again in Odessa, and he almost killed _me.”_

She smiled, a private smile he’d never seen on her face before. “I thought he didn’t remember.”

“He remembers everything,” Steve managed.

“Of course he would.” Now her smile was wry and directed inwards. “We always did in the end.”

 

*

 

“Did I hurt you?”

Steve looked up from the dark depths of his tea. They’d stayed silent for a long while, but it hadn’t gone cold yet.

“What?”

“By telling you this.”

 _“No,”_ he said. “Nat—on the contrary. I always pictured him alone. All these years. Alone and… in a cage. I’m glad to hear it wasn’t always hell.”

The clock on the wall ticked down the seconds until he spoke again. He knew what he had to ask. It was the reason Bucky had told him to speak to her about this.

“Did you have trigger words as well?”

“Oh yes.” Her smile got sharp. _“Expectation. Scarlet. Forty-four. Midnight. Glacier. Nine. Faithful. Opera. One. Spider.”_

Steve’s throat was dry.

“How did you…?”

“I escaped my handlers in 1981 when the KGB fell—took advantage of the confusion.” She drank a bit of tea. “You have to understand that I’d tried running before. He did, too.”

Steve absorbed that information like a punch to the stomach.

“It never worked. They always caught us eventually—we just had to get within earshot to be theirs again. So this time, I decided to try and stand my ground instead.”

She paused, then suddenly, grinned. “It sounds almost silly now, but—I wore earplugs.”

“You—” Steve blinked. _“What?”_

“It was insanely dangerous. I couldn’t hear anyone coming at me, and it forced me to work completely alone—that’s when I started getting a reputation.”

“Didn’t they send anyone after you?”

“Oh yes.” Another sip of tea. “A handful of men. I took them down, and there was never another attempt. They thought the words didn’t work anymore. They were terrified of me.”

Steve huffed a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “That’s…”

“I know.” She was still grinning like the cat who got the cream. “Clint laughed his ass off when I told him.”

“Clint,” Steve said. “Wasn’t he the one to bring you in?”

“That was much later,” she said. “It took me almost thirty years to really break free, and I did it just by waiting it out. Everything fades with time. I tamed the words one by one. I'd repeat one until I’d separated it from any context, then I'd move on to the next one. When I could say the whole sequence out loud, I knew I was done.”

Steve let himself understand what it meant. “If Bucky stays in cryo…”

“It’ll stay fresh. The body and the mind.” Natasha paused. “He can’t just sleep it off, Steve.”

Steve just nodded, because if he opened his mouth he would throw up.

Bucky knew about this; he knew the ice actually prevented what little healing he could achieve by himself; and yet he still chose it every time. Because it was all he wanted anymore.

Steve forced himself to breathe slowly. He couldn’t break down. He could never break down. What happened to Bucky if he did?

He took a deep breath, let it out. Then he looked up at Nat and said in the steadiest voice he could manage, “You’re _seventy-two?”_

He could tell she wasn’t fooled, but she was also kind, and so she indulged him—raised her eyebrows at him over the rim of her cup. “Still younger than you, Rogers.”

 

*

 

They moved on to vodka, because people seemed intent on making Steve drink lately, even though it still had no effect whatsoever on him. The burn did feel good. It occurred to him it probably had no effect on Natasha, either.

“It’s really good to see you,” he said. “I was worried.”

“You always are.”

He huffed an insubstantial laugh, then went on, “You know you’re welcome here. If you want. We’re starting to get a bit cramped, so you might have to share your room, but…”

“Well, I’m moving around a lot,” she said. “But—I could use a house in the country.”

They smiled at each other for a moment.

“So.” Steve cleared his throat. “Clint told you about our arrangement with T’Challa, huh?”

“He gave me the cliff notes. It’s a good thing,” she said. “That way you have time to think.”

“Maybe too much of it,” Steve said wryly. Then without any warning the dreadful panic was threatening again, sinking its claws in his sides. “I don’t know how long I can keep—”

Someone was coming down the stairs. Steve turned around to look at the doorframe; the next second, Scott wandered in with a deep yawn.

He was wearing nothing but grey pouch-front briefs, and made a groggy beeline for the fridge. He pulled out the milk carton and drank three long gulps straight from it before he noticed them sitting there and staring at him.

“Oh. Hi.” He wiped his mouth. “Ant-Man.”

“Who?” said Natasha.

Scott looked demoralized. “C’mon, dude, not you too. Little guy? You zapped me into a wall?”

Steve was too busy choking on his vodka to tell Scott that he was probably the only man on Earth to have ever called Natasha _“dude”._

“Right,” Natasha said flatly.

“And then I got like crazy big?”

“Yes.”

“Red-and-black suit? Weird helmet?”

_“Yes.”_

“Scott, the milk,” Steve said before Scott could go on.

“Whoops.” Scott straightened up the dripping carton. He blinked at them both and finally appeared to realize he was missing something.

“Oh—did you… did you want some?”

“We’re fine,” Steve said. “Go back to sleep.”

“Okay.” He stared at them uncertainly. “You sure?”

“Positive.”

Scott made finger guns at him. “Got it. Good night.”

“Night, Scott.”

After he was gone, Natasha turned to Steve and just _looked_ at him. He took a sip of vodka and said, “Yeah, that’s your bunkmate, by the way.”

“I’m surrendering to Ross.”

 

*

 

Later still, Natasha considered her glass and said, “The thing was—I never had time to think. Not until after I’d met Clint. In a way, I was lucky to have people out for my blood. It gave me something to do. I was fighting for my life. It saved me from realizing I had nothing to live _for.”_

Steve didn’t have to say anything; they both heard it anyway.

“You’re wrong,” Natasha murmured. “He has you.”

“I’m not enough,” he said, almost inaudible.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments make me level up
> 
> Also, I'm surprised at the number of people who don't know this (oh god. Just listen to me. I've turned into a gatekeeping jerk. _It'll happen to youuuuuuuu!)_ but Natasha's backstory here is her canon backstory from the comics (with some minor tweaks to fit it within the MCU. Basically I made up the fact that she had trigger words too, and, consequently, the earplug thing.)


	7. October (part 1)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Natasha stayed for the week, and hugged him tight before he got into the Quinjet.

“Everything’s going to be fine,” she said, holding his gaze. “Okay?”

Steve smiled weakly at her. “Yeah.”

Wanda was already buckled in the copilot seat, staring straight ahead, stiff with nerves. Steve wished he could have reassured her, but he could barely keep himself together as it was. He turned back to the others who’d gathered to see him off.

“Don’t forget to—”

“Lockdown until you’re back, we know,” Sam said.

“And you’ll remember to turn off all—”

“We _know,”_ Sam repeated. “We’ve all done stealth missions before, Steve, it’s going to be fine. Don’t worry about us. Okay?”

“Okay,” Steve said. He took a deep breath. “Okay.”

 

*

 

Wanda meditated on the way there, which was a relief—Steve wasn’t sure he could have achieved small talk right now.

When they landed on the helipad, Wanda reopened her eyes and touched his arm. “Steve.”

He tried to sound natural. “Yes?”

“I want you to know.” Her voice was clipped, her accent sharper than usual. “Unless I am absolutely certain I can have a positive influence, I will do nothing but take a look. No matter what happens, he won’t come out worse for wear.”

She was a shade too pale, so Steve just said it. “I know you’re thinking about Nigeria.”

Wanda went even paler, but said nothing.

“I know you’re afraid of messing up. But you _did_ save my life back then.” Steve looked into her eyes. “I trust you to do this. You know I wouldn’t let you anywhere near Bucky if I didn’t.”

Wanda huffed a shaky laugh. “Well _that_ is true.” She looked at him. “What are you going to do if it doesn’t work?”

He shrugged. “Just keep looking.”

“And if it does?”

It was the question Steve had tried to avoid. She tended to ask a lot of these.

If it did and if Bucky _still_ wanted to—

Just thinking about it was like putting his hand on a hot stove—his brain automatically snatched back from the thought, literally refusing to process it.

“I can’t answer that,” he said, because he always tried to be frank with her.

Wanda grabbed his hand, then squeezed. Steve smiled a little, and was about to squeeze back when he felt something else—red power seeping into his veins, migrating up his arm like a wave of warmth.

He closed his eyes. Wanda’s power touched his mind.

The last time, it had zeroed on old longings and cruelly prodded at them. This time it just—made everything a bit less loud. A bit more manageable, like he’d taken a step back, or had a good night of sleep.

He exhaled. “I… thank you.”

Her hand kept squeezing, but this time it was just her. She smiled. “Alright. Time to get off our asses.”

“Clint’s a bad influence on you,” Steve said, unlocking the Quinjet door.

 

*

 

“Welcome.” Hsari gave Wanda a firm handshake. “The thawing’s already started. I will give you a rundown of my own observations while Captain Rogers wakes him up.”

“Oh—alright,” Wanda said, obviously a bit taken short by Hsari’s brusque manners.

“I cannot say I have a lot of useful information, but it’s better than nothing.” Her dark eyes flicked to Steve. “You can go ahead, Captain.”

Steve had no problem being dismissed as long as it was in Bucky’s direction. He glanced at Wanda, who nodded back. He could go. It was fine.

When he got to the cryo room, the chamber was just beginning to open.

Steve wished the damn thing would work faster. These outings felt so rushed every time. The tests, the meal, maybe a few hours to share if they were lucky. And then it was already over, for another three months. The worst part was knowing that Bucky wasn’t really anywhere during that time. He was just suspended in stasis, talking to no one, thinking of nothing, still and silent down to his very cells.

It had been a full year—October to October—since Bucky had first stepped into the chamber. For him, it must have felt like a very short week, without these gaping holes of absence in between.

The cryochamber was hissing steam into the room. Steve wasn’t sure when he’d stopped hating it and started to look at it with longing instead.

He was horribly ashamed of that thought. But wasn’t that the easiest way? Wasn’t that the best option for everyone? To just—sleep side by side. Go back under where it was quiet. Where Steve wouldn’t have to struggle to breathe with every second. Where Steve wouldn’t have to miss him _so much._

The chamber finally opened, jarring him out of his thoughts. He stepped forward, unstrapped Bucky, took his weight when he sagged against him.

Bucky’s fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt. He held onto Steve so tight every time. Steve didn’t know what it meant. _M’ glad you’re here,_ Bucky had said last time.

Had he thought Steve might not come? It did make sense. Steve had been lucky to make the rendezvous every time so far, but something was bound to happen—another planetary threat, something that’d throw him back into the fray, make him miss an outing. What would Bucky do then? Just submit to the tests alone. Eat alone. Go back into the ice alone. Steve would go half a year without seeing him.

“You’re squeezing me,” Bucky rasped.

“I—sorry.” Steve blinked wetness out of his eyes and let go. “Sorry, Buck.”

He helped him to sit down on the bed. Bucky sat there and just shook for a while.

Steve took a deep breath. “Do you remember that today we—”

“Yes.” Bucky licked his cracked lips. “You had some pictures to show me.”

Steve swallowed everything back down. “Sure.” He sat next to him on the bed and got out his phone. “Here.”

Bucky edged closer, his shoulder pressed against Steve’s. Steve went back to the very first photograph—a view of the goldenstone farm, glorious under a bright blue sky.

He swiped through the pictures, showing Bucky the gardens, the cellar, the kitchen. Snapshots of everyone—mostly Sam and Wanda, with pics of Clint and Scott sometimes. At the time they hadn’t been aware he was doing it. Bucky snorted a bit when the selfie came on.

“You look happy,” he said quietly.

That made Steve stop and look up at him. Just like on the mountaintop, Bucky’s expression was unreadable. There was something in his faraway eyes like longing—but it could have been detachment, too. Steve couldn’t tell and it suddenly terrified him.

“Buck—”

Bucky swiped to the next picture.

“What’s that?”

“Oh—uh. Staircase. We’re moving onto the second floor.” Steve had wanted Bucky to be able to visit the whole house, if only through this lens. Bucky seemed to understand, because he didn’t ask for any further explanation and just kept swiping through. Steve lost himself in the familiar succession of pictures, trying to hold onto the makeshift solidity Wanda had given him in the Quinjet. Sam’s room, Scott’s room, Wanda’s room, the bathroom with its antique clawfoot tub, even the broom closet, and then Steve’s room at the end of the hallway, and then—

“And that?”

Steve shook himself. “That’s…” He blinked when he saw the picture, then swallowed. “Um, that’s your room.”

Bucky stayed completely still for a second.

Then he looked up at Steve.

 _“My_ room?”

Steve couldn’t look back. He kept his eyes on the small screen. “It’s my house, Buck,” he mumbled. “There’s always gonna be a room for you in my house.”

Many decades ago, an official from the US Army had probably knocked on Winifred Barnes’ door. He had probably waited for her to come down, and when he’d told her that neither Steve Rogers nor Bucky Barnes would ever be coming home, he’d probably used a very gentle tone.

Bucky’s voice had that same gentleness now.

“Steve…”

“No,” Steve said, and the sharp-edged thing was back in this chest, “don’t—whatever you’re about to say, please just _don’t.”_

He knew Bucky was still looking at him, but before anything irrevocable could happen, Hsari and Wanda walked back into the room.

“Alright,” Hsari said, “Let’s get to work.”

 

*

 

“Hi.” Wanda looked nervous. “We haven’t talked a lot. I’m Wanda.”

“I know who you are,” Bucky said quietly.

“Will you give me your hand?”

Bucky wordlessly held out his hand.

“Should you be watching this?” Hsari asked Steve, without looking at him.

For once they were both on the other side of the glass wall. He held onto the harshness of her voice. He needed it to jostle him away from his own thoughts.

Bucky’s eyes fluttered shut; Wanda was doing to him the same thing she’d done to Steve in the Quinjet a moment ago. A faint wrinkle appeared between her brows; it must have worn off even faster than it had for Steve.

“Alright.” She held out both hands, placed them at Bucky’s temples. “Close your eyes. Don’t try to fight it.”

Bucky complied.

“I repeat,” Hsari said, her voice dropping to a dangerous low, _“should you be watching this?”_

Bucky’s eyes were closed. He looked at peace. Tendrils of red energy were seeping into his mind—worming their way inside—

—his _brain—_

“Door across the hall,” Hsari said.

Steve barely made it there before he puked his guts out in the toilet bowl.

When he was finished, he was covered in a cold sweat and shivering, but at least he didn’t feel like he was going to throw up anymore—it was done already.

In the other room Bucky probably still looked at peace. _At peace._ Steve thought back to what Natasha had told him. _I was lucky to have people out for my blood._ He remembered his darkest fears, the way Wanda had found them and exposed them. Peggy’s beautiful youth. _The war is over, Steve._

He had brought Bucky to safety, and realized too late that safety was the greatest trap of all. _Soldier_ was a skin to be shed when the war ended. But they’d worn their uniforms too long. The cloth had melted into their flesh. If they shrugged them off, there would be nothing left.

Steve rested his forehead against the cool tile.

To sleep by his side. The both of them, in the ice.

Would it be that bad?

Gritting his teeth, he wiped his brow and pushed to his feet, then walked back to the observation room.

Hsari didn’t move, but said flatly, “I will have his Highness throw you out.”

Steve didn’t listen to her. He was looking into the room. On the other side of the glass, Wanda’s tendrils were seeping more and more deeply into Bucky’s mind. Bucky still looked serene.

Wanda, though, had become pale as paper.

Her eyes were unseeing, but tears welled up in them, ran down her cheeks. Her hands were shaking around Bucky’s head.

Steve pressed the button of the mike. “Wanda, _stop!”_

Wanda startled and snatched back; Bucky’s eyes blinked open.

Unspeakable horror was etched on every line of Wanda’s face. Bucky saw it and made the tiniest move towards her—then stopped himself.

“I’m sorry.” He was wide-eyed. “I’m sorry, I should’ve thought about this, I shouldn’t have let you—”

Wanda put her arms around him.

Bucky froze—for a split second, he was obviously unsure whether he was being attacked. But then he seemed to realize it was just a hug; he relaxed by a fraction, and his arm came up to rest delicately at Wanda’s waist.

It was so strange. No one but Steve touched Bucky. Wanda barely knew him—had only just met him, really.

Bucky had closed his eyes and was breathing slowly. Wanda was holding him tight. They looked like brother and sister.

 _“I’m sorry.”_ Wanda was speaking in Sokovian; her voice was shaking with tears. _“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”_

“Ms. Maximoff.” Hsari had pressed the button of the mike as well. “Let’s take a break.”

 _“Go,”_ Bucky said quietly, _“it’s fine,”_ and of course he spoke Sokovian.

Wanda got up, still shaking, and left the room. Bucky sat there, alone, his only arm wrapped around himself, and Steve didn’t know at all what he was thinking.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments charge my batteries


	8. October (part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've just seen Civil War again. YE BE WARNED

 

 

 

 

 

Steve sat by Wanda’s side and waited for her to stop shaking.

“I’m sorry,” he said after a long, quiet while.

“No. _I’m_ sorry.” Her eyes were still a bit wide, and she was moving her head in tiny repressed movements. “I should have been able to do more.”

“You’ve done a lot already.”

She curled in her shoulders. “You don’t need to coddle me.”

“I’m _not,”_ Steve said with too much feeling. “He’s my family. I’m always going to have his back, and he knows that. You don’t have that kind of connection and you still… you wanted to comfort him.” He looked down. “It means something.”

She just looked at him.

Steve kept staring at his hands. “I wish you hadn’t had to see—”

“Steve.” Her smile looked as sorry as he felt. “I’ll be fine. I’ve had worse.”

Steve said nothing. Sometimes he forgot everything she’d been through. She had so much grace he just _forgot._

“It did show me a potential solution,” she said after a deep breath, “but you won’t like it.”

Steve almost laughed, because what else was new. He finally looked up. “What is it?”

“What I saw…” She hesitated. “It was a glowing forest of memories. I know there are forceful paths grooved into it but I cannot distinguish them; they’re lost in the multitude. If we were to use them—they would glow bright enough for me to see.”

Steve felt his insides go still.

“You need someone to activate his triggers while you’re in there.”

“I said you wouldn’t like it.” She looked away. “We don’t have to do this now. I can come back in January.”

“No,” Steve said, his heart rate going up at the thought of leaving the house in France unprotected twice in a row. He opened his mouth, hesitated. “He should… he should at least know. It’s his choice to make.” He lowered his voice. “And yours.”

Wanda glanced at him again. She was still pale, but her eyes burned bright.

“I’m not leaving him like this. Not if I can help it.”

 

*

 

For a second, Bucky did hesitate.

But then he ducked his head, like he had every time he’d been asked to do something. “Okay.”

“You can take another minute to think,” Steve hurried to say.

“I said okay,” Bucky repeated quietly.

“I cannot let you do this," said another voice.

Everyone turned to Hsari. The look in her eyes wasn’t hostile as expected, but her lips were still pressed into a thin line.

“Not without his Highness’ agreement,” she went on. “If we are to activate the Winter Soldier, he should be warned.”

“Of course,” Bucky said.

She inclined her head, then left the room. Steve was awfully relieved for this reprieve. He couldn’t help feeling like Bucky was simply resigning himself to this. He’d had this feeling since the very start.

He wished Bucky would have met his eyes, to see what he’d read there. But Bucky wasn’t looking at him; he hadn’t looked at him since Steve had shown him the picture of his room in France, empty and waiting.

 

*

 

Hsari came back after a minute. “Captain Rogers. His Highness wants to speak to you.”

Steve looked at Wanda, then at Bucky, who was still keeping his eyes down. He nodded, then followed her in the hallway.

T’Challa was waiting by the windows overlooking the jungle.

“You disapprove,” Steve said.

Some part of him desperately wished T’Challa would forbid it entirely.

T’Challa took a silent breath. “No. Ms. Maximoff’s plan makes sense.” He looked at Steve. “But it is a powerful weapon we’re activating. And power is always tempting.”

Steve knew what he was getting at. “It’s alright,” he said wanly. “I’ll be the one to say the words.”

Of course it would be him. Who else? In Siberia, Tony had said, _Stay down. Final warning._ Steve would have liked to stay down—and even more so now. He was hurt and tired. He wanted to stop fighting. The crux of the matter was that he couldn’t. _If you start running they’ll never let you stop_. Nobody had ever truly understood that, except for Bucky.

T’Challa dark eyes were boring into his. “I do trust you,” he said in a slow voice. “Even more so when it comes to him.”

He raised a hand to his collar and popped open the first button of his shirt. Underneath lay the thin dark layer of his ancestral suit, vibranium chainmail lighter and colder than silk.

“I do not, however, trust HYDRA’s programming. I shall be present as a weapon myself.”

It meant he would hear the words. But for all Steve knew, T’Challa had learned them by heart already. The notebook was in his custody. Just like Bucky himself. Steve had no choice but to trust him. Though he couldn’t be certain, he thought he’d probably made poorer decisions.

So he nodded. “I can live with that.”

T’Challa put a hand on his shoulder, just for a second.

Then he fastened the button of his shirt again, and turned away. “Let’s go. They must be waiting for us.”

 

*

 

For the first time since he’d come to Wakanda, Bucky agreed to sit in a chair. Wanda sat behind him, with her hands on each side of his head. T’Challa stood in a corner of the room, never looking away from Bucky, who had closed his eyes.

Steve sat in front of him and opened the notebook. The first word jumped out at him.

_Zhelaniye._

There it was. The first step to turning James Buchanan Barnes into an empty slave, with no other compulsion than obedience to his master.

It was a very cruel way of answering Steve’s wishes. After he’d done this, he could just say, _Come home._ And Bucky would follow him home. Except for the fact that it wouldn’t be Bucky at all—and that Steve would sooner tear out his own tongue than use it in this way.

Yet he had to say the words now.

Steve had talked to a lot of intelligence professionals these past months. He knew how to condition someone. You had to break down their sense of self first. Bucky had been tortured, yes; but for the most part he’d been made to torture other people. It didn’t matter whom. Other prisoners of war. Homeless people snatched off the street. Orphaned children. Animals, maybe. He was at his captors’ mercy. They had other hostages ready for the slaughter if he refused to obey. What could he do but obey?

The retired KGB general, in particular, had told Steve this: _The subjects do most of the work themselves. Past a certain threshold of horror and self-loathing they start wishing to be erased. The mind begins to turn itself inside out and wipe itself clean. Negating themselves is the only way for them to cope with what they’ve been made to do. It is their only option since they are not allowed to die._

Obey, obey, obey. Bucky had no choice. No matter what horrors he was made to do. He had no choice. This single lesson—taught again and again and again. Eventually this reality would have hardwired itself into his brain. And just like that, most of the work was done. Without the _ability_ to question orders, he was a blank slate. Maybe it had been a relief, to give in.

Steve remembered how Bucky’s scans had looked when he’d been asked to think of Siberia. Almost all of his brain activity shutting down. Was that what Steve was about to do to him?

Did Bucky long for it?

_Zhelaniye._

Steve had to say it. He had to do what Bucky wanted. He owed him this much. For seventy years, Steve had slept in the Arctic while Bucky’s mind was pried out and his thoughts overwritten in blood. Even now—with their roles technically reversed—Steve was _still_ the one who had it easy. All Bucky could scrape up was a meagre ersatz of peace; and yet Steve wouldn’t even let him have it. Steve demanded that Bucky come out and entertain him every three months. Was Steve at _least_ getting tortured in the meantime? No. Steve got to live with his friends in a big goldenstone house by the river Dordogne.

“Zhel—” His hands were shaking; the words were blurring before his eyes. He blinked the tears out and swallowed thickly around a raspy throat. “Zhela—”

“Stop. Jesus. _Stop.”_ Bucky got up from the chair, almost stumbled. “Steve, I’m sorry, you don’t have to—how could I ask you to—”

He ripped out the notebook from Steve’s hands—and Steve _lunged_ against him trying to get it back.

 _“No,”_ he said, reaching, “no, wait, I can do this, I’m sorry, I was getting there—”

“Steve, stop,” Bucky panted—when had he grabbed Steve like this?—why was he pushing back against him?—“Steve, stop, _stop!”—_ but Steve couldn’t stop—he had to get the notebook back _—_ he shouldn’t have let go of it—Bucky’s safety depended on it—

 _“T’Challa,”_ Bucky said, and another solid grip came to restrain Steve, blocking his arms against his sides.

“No, I can do this,” Steve said, still trying to break free. “I can do this—”

 _“Steve,”_ Bucky pleaded. “Steve, I’m so fucking sorry, just _listen to me,_ you don’t have to do it, I should’ve never asked you to do it, I just went mad for a second, I didn’t think of how much it would hurt you—”

And _that_ was when Steve stopped struggling.

It was like his entire body had powered down. Suddenly everything was very quiet in his head; he felt limp and heavy, like he might never move again. All he could do was sag against Bucky. So this was what it felt like. To have all the fight gone out of him. It was a strange, unpleasant feeling. But he'd been right. It  _was_ a relief, too.

“Steve?” Bucky asked shakily. He sounded incredibly worried. “Steve?”

“I’m sorry,” Steve murmured. Hot tears rolled down his face, seeping into the cloth of Bucky’s shirt. “I’ve been so goddamn selfish.”

Bucky sounded completely lost. “What?”

“All those tests. All those scans. You were even gonna let me _say the words_.” Steve let out a small, wet scoff. “Today’s the only time you asked for it to stop. And that’s because you thought it might hurt _me.”_

_Stay down. Final warning._

“It’s okay, Buck. You don’t have to do this anymore. I’m sorry it took me so long.” He pushed the words out like a nausea. “I’ll let you rest. For good this time. I can be alone. I’ll learn how.”

Bucky let out an animal noise.

“Jesus. Jesus Christ. _Get out.”_ He was physically pushing Steve away. “Get him—get him _out_ of here.”

Steve blinked in slow, helpless confusion. No, this wasn’t—he’d thought he was finally saying the right thing. Where had he gone wrong?

“Bucky—wait,” he called, but he supposed he was being taken away indeed because the world receded into a numb distance, until he wasn’t really anywhere anymore. 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are instrumental in my world domination plans


	9. October (part 3)

 

 

 

 

 

“You just can’t catch a break, can you?”

Steve’s eyes blinked open. This voice. He must still be dreaming.

Pushing up on his elbow, he opened his eyes. The light washing in was brighter than expected, but it only took him a moment to adjust, and the silhouette standing in front of the window quickly lost its edges of shadow.

Tony smiled at him, unsettlingly fond. The expression fell off his face almost immediately, though—by the time he’d crossed the room, his features had smoothed back into his usual hint of irony.

“Don’t freak out on me.” He sat at the end of Steve’s bed. “For the record, I wanted to let you wake up alone. But people think we should talk, or something.”

Steve looked out the window again. Still in Wakanda.

He went back to Tony. “Where’s Bucky?”

Tony scoffed. “Jeeze, your priorities really are set in stone, aren’t they?” He waved a hand around. "It’s fine. I come in peace, or whatever it is the kids say these days.”

“That’s what you said last time.”

Tony nodded, looking at his hands. Then he briskly got up. “Yeah, alright, I don’t know why I thought this might work. I’ll send his Majesty your way, just—”

 _“Tony,”_ Steve said.

Tony stopped with his back to him, his hand on the doorknob.

“Give me one second here.” Steve pressed a hand to his temple.

It didn’t help him make sense of this situation.

“Wanda loves you, you know?” Tony said suddenly. “She’s a good kid. We haven’t helped her build a lot of self-confidence. All this talk of time bombs.”

He let go of the doorknob and turned round, with his flimsy smile well in place. “But she keeps trying. One difficult choice after another. She’s one of the good ones, you were right to keep her.”

Steve looked at him. “She called you.”

“No, _you’re_ the one who didn’t delete my number, in true bitter ex fashion. Wanda has a… connection to Vision, as it turns out. Not sure how that works. Anyway, you know him, all about equal opportunities, he asked me if I wanted to tag along. Why not? Wakanda’s beautiful this time of the year.”

Steve’s thoughts were still slow and difficult. His brain absolutely refused to recall what had happened right before he went under. All he knew was that he’d backed Bucky into a corner—and the result was this.

“Tony, I—”

“Look, I’m not completely obtuse—I _know,_ ” Tony said, talking over him. He scrubbed a hand over his face.  “Even back in Siberia, I _knew_ what you were saying, alright? But just like you said, it doesn’t change what happened. It can’t change how I feel.” His lips twisted into a joyless smile. “Or how you feel.”

“Tony—”

“No, just—let’s not. Let’s not talk about this, or—Christ, _anything,_ really. I didn’t actually think you’d wake up on my shift, I just—”

Someone knocked on the door and Tony swiveled round.

“Oh thank God. Alright, time’s up, let’s go.”

 

*

 

Steve had never been so happy to see T’Challa in his life. Tony must be thinking the same thing—he patted his suit-clad shoulder and hurried on his way without looking back. T’Challa frowned at him in distaste, but said nothing.

“Captain,” he said, turning back to Steve. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” said Steve automatically. He was looking at Tony’s retreating back. “Confused.”

“Didn’t he explain?”

“Well.” Steve frowned. “There was an attempt.”

T’Challa huffed through his nose. “Come. I’ll show you.”

The room they sat down in was in muted tones of silver, with an indoors waterfall whispering in a corner. It occurred to Steve he hadn’t seen much of the palace at all. Much like Bucky himself, he’d stayed confined in the medical wing.

“The first message is from him,” T’Challa said.

He tapped the smooth surface of the table, which shivered to life.

Bucky’s eyes were red-rimmed and haunted with a single-minded determination.

 _“Steve,”_ he said.

And then he said nothing for a long while. Eventually, he just rubbed his face with his hand, then pressed it hard over his eyes for a second.

 _“Just wait for me, alright?”_ he said in a straining voice. _“One last time. There’s stuff I need to tell you.”_

The video was over already.

T’Challa tapped at the table again, without a word. Wanda’s face appeared on the screen.

 _“Steve—I’m sorry for making you sleep. You were… I just eased the way under. But it doesn’t look like you’re waking up anytime soon, and we have to go.”_ She bit her lip, looked away, then back into the camera. _“Trust me.”_ Her voice was unsteady, but her eyes shone. _“Something good will happen.”_

Again, the video was done too soon. Steve could feel himself blanch a bit more with every second.

“Why did they leave me _messages?_ ”

“Ms. Maximoff, the Vision and your friend have been locked together in the medical wing for the past forty-eight hours,” T’Challa said. “They were hoping to be done before you woke up, but just in case...”

“I slept for _forty-eight hours?”_

“No. Seventy-two. Mr. Stark and the Vision had to fly in through civilian means. Officially they’re on a diplomatic visit following the events in Vienna.”

Steve felt like he was going mad. “T’Challa, _what is happening?”_

“Teamwork, I believe.” T’Challa joined his hands, tapping at his vibranium ring. “Mr. Stark could indicate precisely which parts of the brain to target. The Vision’s power can impose his will upon the human mind. And Ms. Maximoff has the means to direct that power.”

Steve just stared at him.

“Your friend was adamant,” T’Challa said. “It had to end. No matter the risks.”

 _Get him out of here._ The horror and anger in Bucky’s eyes had not been directed at Steve. _Get him away from me._

 “Can I.” Steve’s throat had never been dryer. “Is there any way for me to see him. Please.”

“Not at the moment, I’m afraid.” T’Challa’s hand hovered over the table. “There _is_ one last video. If you do want to see.”

 

*

 

Bucky’s eyes were still red-rimmed, and steely with focus.

_“Zhelaniye. Rzhavyy. Semnadtsat’.”_

T’Challa was walking in circles around him. The notebook was the color of blood in his hands.

_“Rassvet. Pech’. Devyat’.”_

Bucky’s face was gradually becoming devoid of expression. He just kept staring into space.

_“Dorbroserdechnyy.”_

Wanda was behind him, red tendrils connecting her fingers to his temples. He didn’t seem to feel them.

“ _Vozyvrashcheniye na rodinu.”_

Vision was standing in a corner of the room.

_“Odin.”_

Bucky was completely still.

_“Gruzovoy vagon.”_

There was a short silence after T’Challa had spoken.

Then Bucky’s blank gaze zeroed on him.

 _“Soldat,”_ T’Challa said.

He was carefully holding himself, ready to spring at a moment’s notice.

But the Soldier just ducked his head. His voice was an awful, monotone rasp.

_“Ja gotov otvečat’.”_

The tension in the room shifted subtly, between two breaths.

“I have it.” Wanda’s voice was a hollowed-out whisper. “I know where.”

The Soldier heard her—realized what was being done to him—and in that same moment spotted Vision’s tall, alien silhouette in a corner of the room. His entire body stiffened; his gaze flew back to T’Challa.

“Is this termination?” he asked in English.

Though T’Challa didn’t move, something in his expression twisted. His tone remained steady and calm.

“No. It is honorable discharge.” He closed the notebook. When he spoke again, his voice was soft. “Do not fight. Let them in.”

The Soldier could not disobey. This was not what he was.

T’Challa stepped back, and Vision stepped forward.

He reached out and cupped Bucky’s jaw, red fingers pressing into flesh. The Soldier looked at him; his eyes were very wide.

“Sergeant Barnes,” Vision said in his otherworldly voice.

The stone on his forehead began to glow.

Blackness blossomed in the Soldier’s eyes and devoured them whole.

Behind him—over him—Wanda’s eyes rolled back completely in her head. Her power pulsed deeper into Bucky’s skull, through his eyes and his nose and his ears and his mouth.

He spasmed, only once.

After that nothing moved anymore. Save for the changing shadows cast on the walls and ceiling.

 

*

 

 _Trust me,_ Wanda had said.

Steve idly wondered for how long she’d been talking to Vision. This didn’t make him trust her any less. Clint had stayed in touch with Natasha. Sam very probably kept tabs on Rhodes.

And Steve—well.

“I thought I’d find you here,” he said, stepping out onto the terrace.

Tony didn’t turn round. Steve stopped a few paces behind him and stood there, waiting.

After a beat, Tony ducked his head and let out the ghost of a laugh. “God. Look at us.” There was something horribly raw in his voice. “It’s been a year. But it just _won’t_ go away.”

“I understand the feeling,” Steve said quietly.

Tony scoffed and gazed at the jungle again. “Yes, we’ve always been very good at understanding each other.”

There was a silence.

“Thank you,” Steve said, a bit hoarsely.

“Well, you did say _you’d_ be there if I needed it. See if I was gonna let you one-up me, you goddamn son of a bitch.” A muscle worked in his jaw. “And I did nothing. It’s all Vision. Wanda. I just gave them the blueprints.”

Steve didn’t dignify that with an answer.

“Maybe they’ll just fry his brain, anyway,” Tony said between his teeth.

Steve took a deep breath, then exhaled. “Would you like that?”

“Yes. No. I don’t— _no._ Then he’d be done, and it’d be just you.” Tony finally looked at him. There was a hint of horror in his expression. “It’s not you I want to hurt. Or— _well._ But. Jesus. Not like _that._ Not like _I_ was—”

His hand had clenched into a white-knuckled fist on the stone railing.

“I wish I knew how…”

The look in his eyes was wild and helpless.

 _How did you do it?_ Steve had asked T’Challa. _How did you let go of the hatred?_

Tony blinked hard, then looked away. “I’m… I should get out of here. This is as far as I can go. And I can’t afford to go country-hopping for too long anymore.”

“What about Vision?”

“He’s a big boy, almost two years old, you know, can take care of himself. And he’ll want to stay and speak with Wanda anyway. _Two households, both alike in dignity,_ you know the drill.” Tony pushed himself away from the railing. “You still have my number. Don’t let me know how it went.”

And he was gone.

 

*

 

Steve stayed alone on the terrace. After a moment, he slowly walked forward and leaned onto the balcony, where Tony had been.

He looked at the canopy for hours and hours and hours, gazing at the changing light as the sun went down. By the time it touched the horizon, he felt as ready as he would ever be.

And so it was just as well that T’Challa came looking for him, bearing news.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments give me mutant powers


	10. November

 

 

 

 

 

Vision came out of the room carrying Wanda in his arms, with such attentive care and respect it moved Steve even through his haze of confusion and dread.

“Is she going to be alright?”

Vision’s undecipherable eyes moved to him.

“Yes,” he said. “I believe so.”

It occurred to Steve the last time he’d really talked to him was in the Avengers Tower before he flew for London. He wasn’t even sure why Vision had come to help.

Similar thoughts seemed to run through Vision’s mind. “There is much to be discussed. But that can wait.” He stepped aside. “Go take care of your own.”

Steve did not need to be told twice. He walked past Vision, into the medical room—and was assaulted by an intense smell of sweat and fear.

Bucky was still sitting in the chair. His long hair was sticking in clumps to his temples. He had an empty look in his eyes Steve recognized. Not from the Soldier, but from Azzano, 1945.

Before Steve could do anything, Bucky’s haggard gaze zeroed on him.

“Steve,” he said in a wisp of sound. Then, miserably hopeful, “Steve?”

Steve had to speak past his closing throat. “Yeah, Buck. It’s... it's me.”

He wanted to step forward, but he didn’t know whether he was welcome. Before he could attempt anything, though, Bucky spoke again.

_“Zhelaniye.”_

Steve froze.

“ _Rzhavyy,”_ Bucky said, in a hoarse whisper. _“Semnadtsat’.”_ He smiled wanly. “I could go on.”

They stared at each other for a long second.

“You didn’t have to take that risk,” Steve whispered eventually.  “I would’ve waited—”

He cut himself off. How _dared_ he.

“I’m sorry,” he let out. “I don’t have any right… What I said last time—”

“Steve,” Bucky said hollowly. “It’s not like I left you any other choice.” He looked so exhausted. “I’ve been such a goddamn _coward.”_

“Bucky—”

“Hiding behind my triggers so I wouldn’t have to make any sort of choice about myself. I could’ve at least had the decency to go under for good. Let you move on. But you said you’d come see me and I’m so weak. I wanted it too much. I couldn’t say no.” Tears rolled down his cheeks. “I’ve been so fucking cruel to you. The worst part is, I still want it.” He screwed his eyes shut. "I still want it. I don't want you to leave me."

 _“Bucky.”_ Steve said at last. “Bucky, Christ, you _deserve_ to have it easy. You don’t owe me anything. You weren’t a coward—you were just tired. With good reason to be.”

Bucky said nothing, staring at the ground.

“You didn’t have to make a choice if you weren’t ready,” Steve went on, but his words sounded empty, carrying no comfort. “And—and if you want to sleep even now, then that’s fine. You’ve earned it—you don't have to _fight_ all the time anymore, you're…”

His voice trailed off when he heard his own words.

This wasn’t right. He was running in circles. Bucky had just showed him the way. Steve just had to be brave enough to follow it.

“You’re…”

He swallowed. Somehow it was the most difficult thing he’d ever said. Even more difficult than telling Bucky he could sleep forever.

“You’re… you’re right.”

Bucky looked up at him.

“You’re right,” Steve said again, and his voice was suddenly breaking with sobs. “It’s been killing me, Buck. You can go back under. But I don’t _want_ you to. I’m not strong enough. I can’t take another minute of this hell. I just want you to come home with me.”

Bucky let out a shaky sound and got up from his chair.

“I’m sorry,” Steve sobbed. “I’m so sorry, Buck—”

“No,” Bucky exhaled, wrapping his arm around him, “I’m sorry,” and Steve held him tight in return, pushed his face into his shoulder, breathed him in until he felt drunk with it. Bucky’s voice was broken with tears and breathy with relief. “I’m sorry, Steve. I’m here. I’m with you. It’s over. I’m sorry.”

Steve felt it in his bones, in his heart, and it was as if he’d been holding his breath all this time, ever since he’d woken up from the ice; as if he'd only just now remembered how to fill up his lungs.

 

*

 

They’d ended up staying in Wakanda for almost a week.

Wanda’s and Vision’s intervention had lasted almost four days; and Bucky had passed out for a solid twenty-four hours afterwards. When he’d woken up, Hsari had taken him to the labs. T’Challa was making good on his promise.

Steve wanted to stay while Bucky’s arm got changed, but Hsari had unceremoniously thrown him out, and so he was hovering aimlessly by the window. The beginning of November was making the skies silver and the canopy darker. Steve thought of the house in France. The others were probably worried sick.

He wasn’t surprised when Vision came to join him.

“How is she?” Steve asked.

“Still asleep.”

“Aren't you concerned?"

“No.” He sounded so deeply certain Steve himself was a bit less worried.

There was a silence.

“Thank you for what you did,” Steve said. “I’m glad you and Wanda weren’t broken apart despite—everything.”

“So am I.” Vision looked at him. “Did you have the chance to speak with Mr. Stark?”

Steve huffed. “A little.”

“And?”

“I don’t know if it was a step forward. I guess we both _wanted_ it to be.”

“That is progress in itself.”

A movement at the edge of their sight caught both their attention. T’Challa was stepping into the room.

“They’re finishing up,” he said. “Your friend will join us in a moment.”

“Your Majesty,” Vision said. “We didn’t have the chance to talk. I feel I must apologize for the disturbance.”

“I have taken the Winter Soldier in my home,” T’Challa said. “I expected something far more deadly. Instead…”

He paused, then smiled.

“I despised the Avengers for a long time, even before Vienna,” he said. “A group of American vigilantes. Full of themselves and of their own power, no doubt.”

“That’s not untrue,” Steve said.

T’Challa huffed a laugh. “Not entirely. But as I come to know you, I realize. Each of you is moved by devotion first and foremost.”

Vision inclined his head in agreement.

But then he said, “Some would say that is precisely what makes us so dangerous.” When Steve looked at him, he added, “Your friend deserved to be helped. That is why I came when Wanda called me. But I have not changed my mind about the Accords.”

Steve huffed a laugh, looking away. “I don’t think any of us will.”

“We shall have to keep finding ways around it,” Vision said pensively. “Perhaps that is not an impossible way to live.”

 

*

 

Bucky’s new arm was a muted black, with a white star on his shoulder. It moved without a hitch, sleek and silent. _Panther,_ Steve thought every time he looked at it.

He knew he would owe T’Challa for the rest of his life, and he was content with that thought. There were much worse men to be indebted to.

Before leaving, Bucky wanted to do one last thing.

 

“You don’t have to come,” he said, walking through the royal gardens. “He tried to kill the both of you.”

Neither Steve nor T’Challa said anything, and Bucky didn’t insist.

When they got to the small indigo pond where they’d sat down once, he stopped and opened the bundle he was carrying. It was his old shoulder piece, silver with a red star.

He dug a hole in the dark rich soil with both his hands. When the piece was buried, he took a sleek slate of obsidian from the ground and engraved the letters with his metal fingers, one letter after the other.

 

S   O   L   D   A   T

 

Steve remembered the video. The Soldier’s frightened, helpless look. _Is this termination?_

He couldn’t make sense of the tangle in his chest. He wasn’t sure the Soldier had ever been truly separate from Bucky. He wasn’t sure if they were burying a person or a part of James Buchanan Barnes’ past. It didn’t matter. This was a burial anyway.

Bucky got up and dusted his pants. He was still dressed in white, and the grass stains were there to stay. They’d have to go buy him some clothes in France, Steve thought. And suddenly he was dizzy with the overpowering realization that Bucky was coming back with him—that the war, at long last, was over.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooooooo there will be another chapter after all, I couldn't resolve everything in this one. :D I'm going for a LARP this weekend, though, so I can't promise it'll be there in two days. I do promise it will be there, within the week ^^ Thank you so much for reading and commenting, and generally screaming about these idiots with me. <3
> 
> Comments are like hot chocolate on a rainy day!


	11. ...and so on

 

 

 

 

 

Wanda woke up as they flew over the Mediterranean sea.

Bucky was the first to notice. Suddenly, he was unbuckling himself from his seat and hurrying to the back; when he realized what was happening, Steve set up the automatic pilot and quickly joined them. Bucky had already knelt by Wanda’s seat. She looked dazed, only half-awake. She’d extended her pale, thin hand to cup Bucky’s stubbly cheek, and she looked at him with a wondering smile.

“Did we do it?” she asked in a faraway voice. “Did it work?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said hoarsely. “Yeah, _sestrika._ Thank you.”

Wanda looked past him and her eyes widened. “Steve.” She smiled, bright and fond. “I told you something good would happen.”

“You did.” Steve knelt by her side as well. “I can’t ever thank you enough for this, Wanda.”

She looked so sweet and so young—and at the same time there was a hint of dark confidence in her eyes, like she’d dove into herself and seen just how deep the waters ran, how far her roots could reach.

“Wanda— _Wanda,”_ Steve said when red power began to pulse out of her.

“Oh. I’m sorry. It comes so easily now. I’ve done so much. I could do so much.” Her eyes were closing again. “I need more time, I think—are we going home?”

“Yes. Vision said—”

“I know what Vision said,” she smiled, and was asleep again.

 

*

  

Steve half-expected the farm to be gone. When he landed the Quinjet, nothing moved for a while.

Then Scott suddenly sprang into full-size from a rose bush—and it took all of Steve’s self-control not to knock him out from sheer instinct.

 _“Jesus!_ Scott—”

“My apologies, Captain,” Scott said, before opening his helmet and yelling, “It’s all good, guys! All clear! Uh, friendlies here! SNAFU!”

“That’s not what it means,” Clint said, coming around the corner with his bow in hand. He saw the destroyed rose bush and scowled. “Lang, we’ve _talked_ about this.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t scale plants without thorns.”

Steve was only half-listening; the front door was opening, and Natasha was leaning against the doorframe, with a smile on her face, feet crossed at the ankle. Sam got past her and marched straight for Steve.

“Never again, Rogers,” he said. “Ya hear me? _Never. Again.”_

Steve grinned and embraced him, clapping him on the back. “That shouldn’t be a problem.”

Sam froze, then stepped back to look at him. “You don’t mean—”

“He does,” Bucky said.

They all turned to him.

He was carrying Wanda in his arms again, coming down the ramp until he’d set foot in the grass. In the lasting silence, all he said was, “Can anybody show me to her room?”

 

*

 

It was fairly obvious nobody had expected Bucky to actually _come home._

There was an awkwardness to peaceful times Steve had never found in war. That first night, it wasn’t long before Sam and Clint and even Scott pronounced themselves tired. Natasha followed shortly after; before she did, she pressed a closed-mouthed kiss to Bucky’s lips, and he let her.

Catching Steve’s gaze on him, Bucky smiled a bit wryly.

“Don’t start,” he said, as if Steve was about to rib him like he would have in 1938. “This isn’t anything. I don’t do that anymore, either. It’s just…” He rubbed behind his neck, then said, “It’s nice to know we both made it.”

Steve knew the feeling.

“Wanna see your room?” was all he said.

They got upstairs in silence.

Bucky pushed open the door and smiled. “Wow. It looks bigger in person.”

There was a twin bed, neatly made, and a few shelves with books; but the room did look huge, and empty, and lonely. Bucky put down his backpack—his battered old backpack which had followed him since Romania, against wind, tide and storm. He looked out the window.

“Okay. I’m here.” He touched the glass with his vibranium fingers, then looked at him with a wry half-smile. “Now what, Rogers?”

“I don’t know,” Steve said. “Didn’t plan much further than that.”

Bucky huffed through his nose. “And that doesn’t scare you?”

“Actually? No.” Steve looked around the room. “I don’t think the world will let us have this for very long. So, yeah. I’m fine with being aimless. For now.”

Bucky looked down with a twist of his lips. Steve hesitated, then said, “Hey—come here,” and he stepped forward to fold him in his arms.

Bucky let out a small sound in his shoulder, which could have been anything. Then he pushed Steve back with a lopsided smile.

“You gonna keep hugging me this much?”

Steve felt like he’d been zapped by Nat’s stingers. It was just—he'd gotten used to embracing Bucky every time they saw each other.

“Sorry,” he said, letting go with a bashful smile. “I’ll, uh. Recalibrate.”

“No, Steve, I was just messing with—oh, Christ,” Bucky rolled his eyes, then wrapped his vibranium arm around Steve’s waist, resting his chin on his shoulder. “Look, pal, we’re ninety. We shouldn’t be alive. We can do any stupid sappy shit we want.”

Steve laughed. “I—” He couldn’t really relax. “I’m really glad you’re here, Bucky.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said. He let go of him. “Yeah.”

 

*

 

The next morning, Wanda was up, and smiled at Steve when he came down in the kitchen.

“Hey,” he breathed. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine.” She kissed him on the cheek, and as she did it he realized the breakfast was making itself in a corner of the room, pots and utensils moved by tendrils of red. That wasn’t all; the TV remote was zapping by itself, and there was even a book with self-turning pages on a windowsill.

“Wanda—”

“Oh. Sorry. Is it freaking you out?” She smiled. Her eyes were faintly glowing. “I just… I can do _so much._ I think I never realized how much.”

Steve looked at her for a minute. Then he just said, “Be careful.”

Wanda kept smiling. “Always.”

 

*

 

The thing was—Steve had good ears. People tended to forget that. He didn’t often overhear conversation in places like Stark Tower or the UN buildings, with their soundproof rooms and double-glazed windows. But in an old French farm—

“What’s wrong, man?” Sam asked for the second time.

Steve tried to focus on the board and shut off the sounds of Bucky tossing and turning in his bed upstairs.

“Nothing.”

Sam sighed. “Good thing we’re playing chess and not poker.” He moved his fool. “I hope you’re not here humoring me just ‘cause you feel guilty about leaving us in the dark for a week.”

Steve played his turn without a word.

 _“Steve.”_ Sam rolled his eyes. “If Riley came back I wouldn’t leave his side for three solid months. And yeah, he’d get tired of it. And yeah, all my friends would get tired of it. That’s just the way it is. Stop trying to make everyone happy all the time.”

Upstairs, Bucky shifted again, audibly taking unnaturally deep, slow breaths to try and fall asleep.

“’Sides, I lost.” Sam frowned at the board. “Isn’t this game supposed to be a metaphor for conversations? Just so you know, I just obliterated your ass. Metaphorically.”

Steve laughed, and thanked him, and went upstairs. But he didn’t knock on Bucky's door.

 

*

 

“Dude,” Clint said on the third day. “Is it me, or are you guys never in the same room at the same time?”

Steve said nothing.

 

*

 

“Even Scott noticed,” Natasha said after a long evening of drinking vodka and saying nothing.

“I’m not avoiding him,” Steve said, pained. “He’s avoiding _me.”_

Natasha huffed.

“This really has gone on for long enough, Steve. Don’t you think?”

 

*

 

Bucky was tossing and turning again, occasionally groaning in frustration.

All of a sudden, as if a dam had broken inside him, Steve got up. He put on a shirt, then shuffled down the corridor. He knew Bucky could hear him coming. 

He pushed open the door and said, “Let’s put the mattress down. It’s a twin, we’re never gonna fit.”

Bucky got up, slid the mattress down, and lay down with Steve without a word, tucked against his side. He was asleep within five minutes.

In the morning, though, Steve woke up alone.

 

*

 

“He’s outside,” Wanda pointed out helpfully when Steve came down.

Bucky was sitting by himself near the bare rose bushes, in a rusted garden chair. The flowers were long gone, but the trees had been set ablaze by fall; in contrast with the severe grey-and-black ground, they painted an austere but beautiful tableau.

When he walked out of the house to join him, Steve was struck by the crisp taste in the air, which reminded him vertiginously of World War II—the quieter times, when they smoked with their back to a pine tree, getting back up sticky with golden resin.

Bucky had his eyes closed, his face turned up to the pale November sun.

“Feels like you’ve been waiting for something," Steve said eventually. "You wanna tell me what?”

Bucky didn't reopen his eyes. “You said it yourself, pal. It ain’t gonna last forever.”

“So you’re expecting the apocalypse?”

“I’m expecting you to call Sharon.”

Steve blinked. _This_ he hadn’t seen coming.

“Sharon?” he repeated, nonplussed. “I haven’t… We haven’t really been in touch.”

He wasn’t sure why he’d kissed her, to be honest. Maybe because their fragile flirting had been one of the few things to keep him sane in the long dead months between the battle of New York and the fall of SHIELD. Maybe because Sharon had wanted it, and Steve had wanted to give her something in return for her help. Those were not noble or decent feelings, and so he tried not to dwell on them too much.

“Because you were fussing over me.” Bucky shifted in his chair as if to get more comfortable. “I’m here now. So you should start thinking about the future.”

Steve stared at him.

“Jesus,” he said eventually.

His tone alerted Bucky, who reopened his eyes. “What?”

“You’re _still_ expecting me to keep you in storage.”

Steve’s mind was running double time with indignation. He _knew_ this had been too easy. Bucky was too quiet and too compliant. Bucky was still _resigned_. He was enduring this like he’d been enduring the tests in Wakanda—to keep Steve content. He still expected to be forgotten and put aside eventually.

“Get up,” Steve said.

“Steve…”

“Get up,” Steve repeated, and grabbed his metal hand to hoist him to his feet so he could look him in the eye. He’d never been so frustrated in his life. “Bucky. I’m _with you.”_

“To the end of the line,” Bucky completed. “I know.” His vibranium fingers loosened around Steve’s. “There’s more to life than that.”

Steve stepped away for a second to scrub a hand over his face. “Christ. Okay. That’s _it.”_ He dropped his hands and took a deep breath. “Nothing to it. Let’s just get married.”

Bucky just stared at him.

“What,” he said eventually.

“Good times and bad, sickness and health, till death do us part. That sounds a lot like what I’m trying to tell you and what you just _won’t hear.”_  Steve huffed through his nose. “You’re my best friend. You’re my only family. It’s always gonna be you first and foremost, Bucky.” Desperation crept in his voice despite himself. “Do you still not believe that?”

Bucky looked too shocked to speak.

Steve felt himself heat up. “Look, I know it’s dumb. But it’s about the plainest way I can put it. And you did say I could do any stupid sappy shit I wanted.”

Bucky just blinked at him for another few seconds. Then he started laughing—quietly at first, and then louder, until he had to sit back in his chair and rest his face in his hand and just laugh and laugh and laugh. He was crying a little, too, but Steve didn't mention it.

“Oh,” Bucky exhaled eventually, “Jesus.”

Steve was still very red but refusing to back down. Bucky stared at him for a while, then he looked away with a scoff. “You’re something else, Rogers.”

“Look, maybe I _will_ call Sharon one day,” Steve said. “And maybe whatever you had with Nat doesn’t belong entirely in the past. I don’t know. We’ve got time. But as far as I’m concerned, if I ever look someone else in the eye and tell them they’re the most important person in my life, then I’ll be lying.”

He exhaled, then looked down. “And… I want to live with you again,” he said quietly. “I missed it. I’m tired of needing excuses for it.”

Bucky huffed again, incredulously. He looked away, at the bare fields surrounding the house. A chilly breeze came down and lifted the ends of his hair, making them move in soft, slight touches over his throat and neck.

“Alright, fine,” he said in a strangely subdued voice.

Steve looked up at him. “What?”

Bucky had closed his eyes, smiling.

 _“Fine,”_ he repeated.

Then he turned his head to look at Steve again. His eyes were crinkling at the corners. “Can we actually get married, though? I wanna see Wilson’s face.”

Steve stayed still and dumb for a second. Then he found himself smiling and absolutely unable to stop.

“Christ,” Bucky mumbled, “I’d forgotten how stupid you could look,” and he dragged Steve close to wrap him in his arms, and hold him tight, for a long, long time.

 

*

 

“Is this a prank?” Sam said. “This is a prank. Right?”

Before anyone else could say anything, Scott said, “That’s perfect! I’m a priest!”

Sam uncrossed his arms like he’d wanted to throw his hands up, but stopped himself at the last second. “You’re a _priest?”_

“Yeah! Got an Internet diploma a few years back.” Scott’s smile faltered. “Do they take those away if you go to prison?”

“We’re in France,” Wanda pointed out. “I do not think it would be valid here anyway.”

“We’re _on the run,”_ Sam said, “it’s not gonna be valid anywh—Jesus, what the fuck am I even saying. _Dude._ ” He looked at Steve indignantly. “I won’t say I didn’t have my doubts, but you could’ve _said_ it was like that.”

“It’s not, though,” Steve said. “I mean, it’s not like we—”

“I don’t wanna know. I _do not_ want to know,” Sam said, raising his finger.

“Oh, but we’re doing this,” Natasha said with a spark in her eye. “Whose best man am I?”

In the end, it was a huge collective mess. As the only married man in the room, Clint turned out to be the most qualified to officiate. He was helped in this by Scott, who had his pride; Sam, who delivered all his lines in a deadpan tone while looking Steve right in the eye; and Natasha, who couldn’t have sounded more ironic if she’d tried. All the people present were simultaneously Bucky’s and Steve’s best men and maids of honor. At one point, Wanda said gleefully, “You may kiss the bride,” and Bucky planted a huge wet kiss on Steve’s cheek, causing him to curse and struggle to get away. They had no rings, no cake, nothing to drink but vodka and orange juice. By the end of the night everyone was drunk. It was the most ridiculous thing Steve had ever done.

Bucky wouldn’t stop smiling.

Natasha sat next to Steve and clinked their glasses together. “Keep glowing this much and you won’t need a nightlight.”

 

*

 

 _Zhelaniye,_ a voice was saying in the dark.

Steve didn’t know if the voice was his own—and that fear was enough to startle him awake.

He shook and gasped for air and stared into space for a long, sweat-soaked minute.

Then Bucky’s arms wrapped around him and pulled him back to lay down again. “Hey,” he said. “M’ right here.”

Steve closed his eyes, still breathless. “Can you—” he said. “Can you say one of them. Just one. Any of them.”

Bucky smiled and said, “ _Vozvrashcheniye na rodinu.”_

Then he kissed Steve’s temple.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "No homo," Marvel said. "Alright, then platonic marriage," I answered.  
> It's been a long time since I wrote a self-indulgent little piece like this. That was so much fun! Thank you all for reading and satiating my comments thirst! :D


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